


...And Happily Ever After

by melofttroll



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: All Human, Alternate Universe, Disabled Character, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone lives, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, No Hale Fire, Pastry Chef Derek, Rich Hales, Server Stiles, Slow Burn, grad student Stiles, hook ups, hotel au, injured sheriff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-06 08:57:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14638466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melofttroll/pseuds/melofttroll
Summary: His Cinderella story was about to end at the end of a chef’s knife, probably.Stiles meets the love of his life one night, except circumstances change their beginning to an end.  Or so he thinks.Five years later, Stiles is still thinking about that night, and the stranger on the balcony whose kisses made his knees go weak.  He's sure he'll never see him again, until the day he starts at the Triskelion Resort, and realizes the soft, gorgeous stranger is the angry, impossible to work with Pasty Chef, Derek Hale.  Who, as it turns out, doesn't recognize Stiles at all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I put my musical theater AU on hold (deleted, but I'll repost when I'm inspired to finish it). This one is more up my alley, as I worked for a fancy-schmancy resort during my undergrad years. Some of this stuff is based on real experience, but some of it is just you know...for dramatic purposes.
> 
> I plan to update once or twice a week, and this should have about ten or so chapters. I'll update tags as I go, and if anyone notices me missing one, feel free to let me know in the comments!

Beginnings are often strange and confusing, and more often than not, they’re impossible to recognize as a beginning until the pieces all come together near the end. This story begins five years earlier, but Stiles wouldn’t know it until the cusp of his twenty-sixth birthday.

It started when Scott dragged Stiles to the masquerade themed party at The Triskelion—the only four star, five diamond resort within two hundred miles of Beacon Hills—he didn’t expect much. Scott was an employee there, not a guest—but he’d won a contest at work and he’d scored both tickets.

“Dude, it’s the night of your birthday. It’s open bar. You’re twenty-one and what better way to celebrate. No one’s going to know who we are!”

Things hadn’t been going exactly well for Stiles—every romance ending in painful disaster after no longer than a week, his undergrads coming to an exhausting end, and his dad well…doing okay but not the best, leaving him with a ball of ulcer-y goodness in the pit of his stomach. What he really wanted was to buy a bottle of cheap scotch and curl up under his covers and binge Star Wars until he passed out.

But Scott had those damned puppy-dog eyes, and the mannerisms to go along with it, and Stiles had always had a hard time telling his best friend no. So he sucked it up and called up Lydia to see if Jackson had left anything good behind. She scrounged him up at tux that didn’t fit too terribly, and even managed an ornate, half-mask with a plume of peacock feathers and huge, costume jewels imbedded along the forehead.

He let her paint his eyes with black liquid eyeliner, and rub a small layer of shining gloss, and she only wrinkled her nose a little when he told her he was driving the jeep to the party. “Not everyone got a Porche for their sixteenth birthday, Lyds,” he reminded her.

She waved him off, then went back to her books.

Scott was true to his word—the champagne flowed like the crappy little creek in the Beacon Hills preserve, and there were tons of server walking around with big trays of foods that Stiles would probably never again eat in his life. There was a massive table set up with the most intricate pastries he’d ever seen, and that’s where the stranger found him.

Stiles was openly staring at these little chocolate squares with painted tops, and gold flakes. “The gold can’t be real. I mean, you can’t eat gold,” Stiles muttered to himself.

“It’s real. It won’t kill you. Just make your shit a little shiny the next day,” came a voice to his left.

Stiles’ head whipped to the side, and he saw a tall man with broad shoulders, wearing a tux with a cut so precise, Stiles wondered if it was sewn on him. His mask was one of the half-phantom deals, all pearlescent white and showing just enough of his cut jawline to tell Stiles this man was way out of his league.

“So you have experience with shining shit?” Stiles said, because he was a fucking dipshit and well, it’s not like he had a chance anyway.

He expected the guy to sneer, but instead he just let out a small, deep-chested laugh which showed off the sweetest little bunny teeth. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and in the dim light Stiles couldn’t tell if they were blue, or brow, or gold, or green.

“Something like that,” the guy finally said, stepping a little closer. He reached with a long arm and seized two more glasses of champagne, replacing Stiles’ nearly empty one.

“Thanks,” Stiles said. “Anyway, I love chocolate but goddamn this is just…”

“Ornate?” the guy offered.

“Pretentious. And who the hell is this chef trying to impress, anyway? Beacon Hills’ most elite?”

The guy’s smile went a little wry. “Some people think it’s an artform.”

“Well it’s certainly artistic.” Stiles shrugged. “One year, my friend dragged me to this modern art show, and in one corner there was like this literal pile of garbage. Like I swear, the person had gone to the dump, arranged it in a pile, and was like, this represents the garbage that is my soul.”

The stranger laughed a little louder. “That sounds horrific.”

“Another piece had a canvas that was painted black. Like, no texture, no nothing. Just black. Then they tied a string to the top and hung one of those metal washers you get from home depot for like twelve cents? Some asshole probably paid like six grand for that shit.” Stiles reached out and seized one of the gold-flaked pastries and held it up. “At least this has a purpose.”

The guy took his own. “To artistic shits?”

Stiles beamed so hard his cheeks hurt. “You understand me.”

They at them at the same time, then Stiles nearly swallowed his own tongue when the guy’s hand reached out, his thumb brushing the corner of Stiles’ mouth. He then put his thumb in his mouth, his bunny teeth scraping at a smear of chocolate. “I know a secret way out of here. Just leads to the balcony, but no one else has any idea it’s there.”

Stiles had a feeling it was more than just an invitation for fresh air, but fuck it. It was his birthday, he was still mostly a virgin (two sloppy hand-jobs in the library bathroom during the sophomore stress of finals week counted, but not much), and this obscenely hot guy in a mask was…offering.

He cleared his throat. “It _is_ getting a little hot in here.”

The stranger offered over a large hand, and Stiles placed his in it, palm-to-palm. His skin was warm—god, so warm—and his fingers were gentle as they curled over Stiles’. Neither said a word as the stranger ducked through the crowd, then just before they reached the exit, he pulled back a tapestry and gave Stiles a shove.

No wall, just an empty archway which led to a dark hall. Five feet later there was a door, and it opened to a darkened balcony showing off the resort grounds below, and the sea of stars above them. Stiles hadn’t realized how oppressive and stuffy the ballroom felt until he gulped in fresh night air. His relief lasted only moments, as the stranger’s body pressed up against his back.

“Is this okay?” he murmured against Stiles’ ear.

Stiles nodded. “Yes. This is…super okay.”

The guy’s hands gripped him by the hips, and a warm mouth nipped at his neck before he was spun, and pressed back against the balcony railing. Stiles let out a slight yelp, but the guy merely laughed and held tighter.

“I won’t let you fall.” He pushed in a little further, his lips brushing against Stiles’. Stiles could feel the hard plastic of the guy’s mask pressing into his cheek, and the awkward press of the barrier separating their foreheads.

“Should we de-mask?”

“Isn’t this part of the fun?” the guy murmured. “Strangers.”

Stiles flushed all over. “I…I don’t…”

Maybe it was the hesitation in his voice, or the slight prickle of fear at the idea of sex with a random stranger, but the guy paused. His hands lifted from Stiles waist then, to the back of his head where he unfastened the ties. The plastic peeled away, leaving a face so perfect, Stiles wanted to cry. He’d been right to assume this guy was far, far out of his league.

When the guy’s hands came up to Stiles’ face, he reached up, seizing him by the wrists to still the movements. “I…maybe um…”

“You hiding something under there?” he asked playfully.

Stiles flushed. “I’m not entirely sure you’re going to be interested once you…unravel the mystery.”

The guy huffed, smiling gently. “Don’t sell yourself short. I noticed you the second you walked in.” His thumb brushed against Stiles’ lips. “Impossible not to notice.”

Stiles shivered again, unable to stop himself from pressing in closer. “Trust me, I’m not…”

“Let me,” the guy whispered.

Stiles couldn’t seem to deny him. He tipped his head forward, and suppressed a full body shudder as the stranger’s warm hands pulled loose the ties, and eased the mask away. Stiles hesitated before lifting his face, and couldn’t look away from those impossible eyes.

A warm hand touched his cheek, the thumb brushing his jawline. “Beautiful,” the man whispered.

Stiles’ heart was in his throat, and then warm lips were on his own. The guy’s tongue gently slid between his lips, hot and slick against his own, and Stiles groaned into his mouth. He felt the bite of hard stone against the small of his back, a juxtaposition to the warm, soft hands caressing down his shoulders, at his waist, gently tugging his shirt from the waistband of his trousers.

Stiles’ head tipped to the side as the guy laid sucking kisses along his jaw, down his neck, biting gently at the junction where his neck met shoulder. Stiles’ fingers scrambled for purchase in the stranger’s well-fitting jacket as a hand went for the trouser button on Stiles’ front.

“Can I? Please, please, I need to touch you,” he murmured.

Stiles whimpered, but in a flurry of hands, suddenly buttons were popped, and zippers were down, and Stiles found himself rutting into a hot fist, against a warm, hard penis gripped in the stranger’s fist. It was so much—it was so fucking much. He felt like a complete loser as his head fell to the man’s shoulder and his body curled in on itself as he came.

He would have felt much worse, actually, except the stranger let out a muffled, deep-chested groan, and then spilled himself all over his fist, his own spunk mixing with the drops of Stiles’. They were both breathing hard, clinging to each other against the cool breeze which now felt bracing against his sweat-soaked skin.

The stranger stepped back, but lifted his clean hand to Stiles’ jaw and dipped his head in to kiss him, long, slow, and familiar like they’d been doing it for years. When they broke apart, Stiles felt himself staring, felt himself smiling, which was mirrored by the stranger’s own lips curling up.

“Hey, what’s,” Stiles began, because he should at least know the name of the guy who just gave him an orgasm outside on a balcony.

His words were cut off by the shrill ringing of a phone, and the guy held up a finger as he fished it out of his pocket. “Yeah? No, I’m busy right now. I can’t just…oh my god. What? He _what_? Jesus fucking…alright fine. You get five minutes, do you understand? That’s it. Five.” The guy shoved his phone back into his pocket with a growl, and then reached for Stiles, kissing him hard, just this side of desperate. “I have to run. Wait up here for me? I promise I’ll be back.”

“Okay,” Stiles said breathlessly. He took a step back as the guy tucked them both back into their pants, trying to smooth away any evidence of what had just taken place.

“I mean it,” the guy said, cupping his cheek. “I’ll be back.”

Stiles nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Famous last words.

Stiles watched him leave, and when the little door shut, he hugged his middle and tried to keep back the ridiculous smile from his face. His cheeks ached with the effort, and his head was spinning because he’d never, ever done anything like this. And he’d never, ever wanted someone as much as he wanted him.

And he didn’t even know his name yet.

Stiles closed his eyes and started to count the seconds. Five minutes was three hundred seconds, give or take a minute or two for elevators. Five hundred seconds then. He could be patient for that.

One hundred and six seconds in, his phone began to buzz. His smile got wider as he pulled it out, ready to brag to Scott about how this might be the best birthday ever. Only Scott’s name wasn’t on the screen. Parish’s was.

Stiles’ heart began to thud, because there was only one reason his dad’s deputy would be calling him right now. This late.

“Jordan,” he said, his voice choked.

“Stiles. We’re at Beacon General. You should get here as quick as you can.”

Stiles nearly dropped his phone as he ran, and he didn’t look back.

~*~ 

**Five Years Later**

“This is the worst idea in the world,” Stiles groaned as he followed Scott in through the employee entrance. “Worst. Idea. Ever.”

Scott huffed as he dragged Stiles past the uniform drop-off, and through the little, narrow door which led to HR. “Dude, you’ve been avoiding this place since your birthday five freaking years ago. Like I know your Cinderella story didn’t end the way the Disney Movie did but…”

“Oh fuck you,” Stiles said. “And dude, I was the bad guy there. He told me to wait, I promised, and like an asshole I ran out.”

“Your dad was shot,” Scott reminded him in a quiet voice. But Stiles didn’t need to be reminded. He didn’t need to, because the consequences were lasting—his dad had been shot in the back, and he’d recovered, but he also wouldn’t walk again.

It hadn’t been the worst thing in the world. Stiles hadn’t lost his remaining parent, and his dad went back to work at the station, and they’d sold the house and bought a one-story, and had gotten all the necessary modifications done. Stiles had put grad-school on hold, but things got better and his dad was just as capable as he’d ever been, and now Stiles was looking at his future again.

Broke, but you know, that’s what this job was for. A server position to keep some extra cash flowing in which also worked with his batshit research hours for his thesis. And it was fine. It’s not like the masked man lived at The Triskelion or anything. He’d been some rich dude who’d fucked Stiles on a balcony, and then had run off, not returning before Stiles had to bail. And that was life. Sometimes a beginning was an end.

“This is Amanda,” Scott said, opening a door to a closet-sized office. “She’s going to give you the tour, and get you set up in the lounge. Uhh…who’s managing tonight?” Scott asked.

Amanda, a tall, brown-haired woman, looked up from her computer and rolled her eyes at Scott. “Erica’s always on the floor on Saturday nights.”

Scott grinned at her, then at Stiles. “Alright, dude. Have fun. I’ll come check on you later.”

Stiles gave him a mock salute, and tried not to think about how fucking weird it was that Scott was basically like his boss. He was a sales manager, and did all sorts of grown up shit like traveling across the country to get new business accounts, and to secure celebrity stays.

Stiles would be wearing an apron and slinging drinks like some college frat boy, and if anything was a kick to the groin, it was knowing all of his friends had moved on—some married, some with kids, all of them with big, career jobs. But this wasn’t his ending, not here. This was a year at best to get his shit together, and line his pockets with some extra spending cash while he finished selling his soul to the Grad School Gods.

He could do this.

“You look nervous,” Amanda said as she pushed herself up from the desk.

Stiles waved off her comment. “Uh. No. It’s just been a while I guess? I had to take some time off from school and work to help my dad out, but he pretty much threatened to sell my organs on the black market if I didn’t get out and start earning my keep.”

She raised a brow, but he was grateful she didn’t ask any questions. “Well, this place is a pain in the ass, and it’ll eat you alive if you let it. But Scott said this isn’t a work your way up type of situation here.”

“Uhh, no. And like no offense to anyone in hospitality. I watched Scott work his ass off to get to where he’s at and dude…better man than I am. But I’m in my last year of Grad school and I’m trying to secure a teaching position at the University. It’s just you know…hard to come by these days.”

She snorted. “My sister just got tenure at Berkley. She’s been working at that for the last seventeen years, so yeah. I get it.”

Stiles let out a puff of air. “I just need to keep my shit together for twelve more months, then…I don’t know. Something else. And frankly I appreciate being allowed to do this and not needing to lie and sell some, ‘I’m here because I super care about what rich hotel goers get drunk on,’ kind of BS.”

Her smile got a little wider. “I think you’ll be okay here, Stiles. I mean, it might be best if you don’t say that to upper management when you meet them. The owners are a little more involved here than a lot of resorts, so try not to run your mouth too much. But you’ll learn pretty quick you can be real with, and who you can’t.”

Stiles felt another rush of nerves, but he reminded himself that losing the job here wouldn’t be the end of the world. There were other places, and he was pretty sure it wouldn’t reflect poorly on Scott.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to pay attention as Amanda gave him the run down about the uniform pick up and drop off. “We launder everything here so in the morning, you come pick up your new uniform and change in the staff rooms. You’ll drop it off at the end of your shift right before you clock out. Never, ever drop your uniform off after clocking out. Anything you do for your job needs to be paid. Got it?”

Stiles’ eyes widened. “Yeah man. Got it.”

“Credit card tips are always paid out through your paycheck, so you won’t see them for two weeks, but the people here are usually decent tippers, especially in the lounge. It’ll save your ass come tax time. People bitch but trust me, they’d rather have it that way.”

Stiles nodded, and poked his head into the staff room where a couple of guys he vaguely recognized—maybe from High School, maybe from trolling the Jungle—were changing. Amanda didn’t linger, though. “We have housekeeping through there, and this is the elevator which leads to the sales offices, reservations, and catering. F&B shares their offices with Restaurant management, and pretty much anything you need, you’ll get it from them. I’m here as your secondary. Someone tries to grope you in the walk-in, you come find me. You’re pissed about your hours? You bother them about it. Make sense?”

Stiles nodded again. “I think so, yeah. I don’t really anticipate that being a problem.”

Amanda snorted as she pushed open a door, and Stiles saw it leading right into the huge, lofty resort lobby. It was all brick and stone, with a sort of industrial, metal sculpture kind of look to it. The front desk stretched half the distance of the lobby, and there were three people working a handful of guests waiting to be checked in.

“You won’t come through here normally, but I’ll let Erica give you the main tour and she can show you were to go for your first shift,” Amanda said, leading him down a small ramp, into a large room with a brightly lit bar along the back wall. “It’s hotel business, and there’s a certain…almost culture to it. You get used to it.”

Stiles wanted to say that he wasn’t worried about it, because by the time he adjusted, he’d probably be gone. But he didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so he merely nodded and let her lead him through the empty lounge floor, through a set of swinging server doors and into a kitchen.

Stiles had worked his fair share of server jobs through undergrad, so none of it was a surprise. The strange, not-quite-offensive smell of cleaning product from the dish pit, mixed with whatever lunch-rush left-overs which sat off to the side in big garbage bins. The floors were brick-red tile, covered in scuff marks and mop smears, and the line was cool, but Stiles could see how easily it would get piled up.

No one was behind the line at the moment, but he caught a glimpse of chef’s whites in the pantry where salads and sandwiches would be made. Still, no one popped out to greet them.

“I’m texting Erica now,” Amanda said, fingers flying on her phone. “If you want to grab a drink, you can. There are cups and the soda fountain right through that door.”

Stiles decided to give himself something to do, and moved into the side station. He grabbed one of the plastic cups, digging out ice, and filling it with sparkling water. He was rooting around for a lemon when he heard a raised voice coming from the kitchen.

“…always in my fucking kitchen. Seriously, it’s like you want to violate every health code…”

“Oh calm down, Derek. Jesus. I’m giving the new lounge server a tour and I can’t find Erica.”

“Typical. Tell her she’s got five minutes or I’m going to fire her ass. And you tell that server that she’d better keep her shit in line. If I have to deal with one more incompetent…”

Stiles decided to take that moment to venture out, mostly because he was a little bit of a masochist. The tall guy in chef’s whites was facing Amanda, away from Stiles, so all Stiles could see was broad shoulders and black hair a mess from a chef’s hat.

Amanda spotted him and sighed. “He’s right here, Der. You can tell him yourself. And Stiles, this is Derek. He’s our head pastry chef so he’s not actually in charge of anything you do, though he is a manager so…”

The guy turned. Stiles had never really had an out of body experience until that very moment. Not until he found himself staring at blue, green, brown, yellow eyes, and a mouth—a mouth that had once kissed him until his knees were weak—now set into a furious scowl.

It was him.

His Cinderella story was about to end at the end of a chef’s knife, probably.

Stiles gulped in air, but after a second, it became very apparent the guy didn’t recognized him at all. “Chef,” Stiles managed to croak out.

The guy huffed. “I might not be your direct boss, but this is still my kitchen and you will respect it. Do you understand?”

Stiles nodded, unable to say another word. Luckily he was saved by a blond woman in six inch heels and assassin-red lipstick. She eyed Derek and rolled her eyes. “Will you please stop terrorizing my newbies, Derek. You want this place to function, we need people actually willing to work here.”

“And if you want to keep your job, Reyes, you’d better be around to actually do it. If I walk into dry storage and find Boyd in there…”

She grinned toothily. “I have no idea what you mean,” she said loftily, then approached Stiles. “Scott’s friend, right? I like Scott. You have a lot to live up to.”

Stiles pinked a little, but then Derek stalked out of the room, and he suddenly felt like he could breathe again. “Jesus.”

Erica huffed and slung her arm around his neck. “His bark is worse than his bite.”

Stiles choked, because well…he actually had something to compare it to, and fuck. Fuck. This was going to be a disaster. The only reason he wasn’t walking out was the simple fact that Derek hadn’t recognized him. “Uh. Well. Like you said, he won’t really be working with me. Right?”

“Nah. He’s the pastry chef. And mostly he does the fancy shit—huge banquets, weddings, fashion shows. If you pick up any banquet shifts, you might see him, but he’s not exactly a public face kind of guy.”

“Shame,” Stiles muttered, then flushed.

Erica and Amanda both laughed. “He’s pretty but trust me, you do not want to unleash him on poor, unsuspecting guests. Anyway, let’s go. I want to give you the tour, and then we can talk about your schedule. You good?”

Stiles took another breath, then nodded. “I’m good. That’s…yeah. It’s all good.” He ignored her smirk, and told himself this was for the best. Derek might have remembered the asshole who left without a word, but he didn’t remember it was Stiles.


	2. Chapter 2

“I know you.”

Stiles looked up from his phone and saw a tall, broad-shouldered guy with a small grin, showing off huge dimples in his cheeks. It took him a second, mostly because Stiles had intentionally blocked out every single memory of the shit-storm that was Beacon Hills High School from his memory. But Danny was his Great Gay Awakening. With his casual flirting which gave Stiles all those moments to think about yeah, he actually wouldn’t mind Danny putting his mouth down there and sucking him off—and yeah maybe Danny’s dick _would_ feel good in his hand, amongst other places.

In college, it was easy to go from theory to practice, to redefining himself in ways outside of the Married With Two Kids expectations that the entire town—and even he, himself—held. He realized things like how Lydia was just a placeholder because the very idea of the hetero-typical nuclear family was terrifying, and she was unattainable. And hating Jackson was both hatred for the guy being an epic douche, but also kind of wanting to put his mouth on Jackson’s mouth because for all the shit that fell out of it, it was a fucking pretty mouth. And okay maybe he didn’t get his rocks off as much as he’d wanted to—and maybe Derek had been his actual first of anything _real_ \--and there was no way in hell he was unpacking _that_ any time soon—but he came back from college knowing who the hell he was as a person.

Of course back then, Derek was a masked phantom who gave him the best orgasm of his life, and then Stiles went and fucked it all up by not getting a goddamn name or leaving a note but hey…

Here he was, back in the lion’s den. And Derek fucking Hale—the world’s most terrifying pastry chef—was his masked stranger.

Now he was looking at the object of his once-teenage lacrosse fantasy who was grinning at him wearing an orange shirt indicating he worked in the restaurant of all places, which, what the fuck. Danny had a 4.0, and a genius IQ, and got into MIT. So what the actual, living _fuck_.

“That’s classist,” was what Danny said, because apparently Stiles had said that last part out loud.

Fuck, he needed sleep. “Sorry, man. I have research leaking out of my ears, along with some spinal fluid, I think. Seriously though, you work here? You’re a server?”

Danny snorted. “Nah. Busser, actually. Well, they call them Server Assistants because it’s a _five diamond_ resort.”

“You’re a busser,” Stiles repeated.

Danny rolled his eyes. “Seriously dude, it’s not that serious. It’s pretty decent money, I live with my brother so I pay like no rent, and I have shit going on on the side.”

Shit going on on the side was probably code for illegal, web-related hacking shit, so the tax reporting of shitty busser income made sense. Stiles wasn’t an idiot, and he wasn’t a snitch, either. “Cool.”

“You’re shadowing me for the day. Erica said you seemed kind of freaked out after a little run-in with Chef Hale.”

Stiles’ heart felt like it was trying to beat straight up through his throat and out of his mouth. He forced himself to calm down. “Uh. He was kind of intimidating.”

Danny snorted. “Yeah, he tried to fire Liam the other day for wearing too much hair gel. The poor kid ran into Erica’s office sobbing and she had to go rip him a new one. She’s the only one who can, by the way,” Danny told him, standing up to stretch. His shirt rode up along his belly and Stiles felt his mouth water just a little. He was a little horny, sue him. Danny was fucking pretty in high school and even better looking now. Danny noticed the stare and smirked, but didn’t call Stiles out on it. “So if he really starts riding your ass…”

If Stiles had been drinking or eating anything right then, he probably would have choked to death. “That’s…that won’t be a problem.”

Danny raised an eyebrow, but just shook his head and nodded for Stiles to follow him. “You look like an asshole in that uniform by the way.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Stiles grumbled.

Danny laughed. “Orange is no one’s color. Except maybe Boyd, but he’s in chef’s whites. Anyway, if you need anything done in the kitchen, he’s your man. He’s the sous for breakfast and lunch.”

“Who’s head?” Stiles asked as they walked past the changing room, and Danny took him through the service tunnel which led to the back entrance to the kitchen.

“No one. This woman had been working here for about a year—Jennifer Blake? She showed up with all these amazing references—Auguste Escoffier, claimed she was trained under Louis Deucalion. Hale loved her, but his sister, Laura, she wasn’t sold on the whole thing. Blake kept making changes, started handling the requisitions herself, and was sticking her nose in accounting. She and Hale started dating—I mean, it was never confirmed,” Danny said, leaning in to lower his voice, “but it was pretty obvious. I have no idea what the fuck happened, but we came in one Monday morning and the entire resort was shut down for like a week. We were all compensated nicely, and they had to remodel a part of Cora’s Cove…”

“Cora’s Cove?”

“The pool-side grill,” Danny said, waving his hand toward a set of doors which led down to the series of intricate spools, swim-up bar, and little outdoor, cabana looking grill. “No idea what happened to it, but when we got back to work, Blake was gone, and Boyd had been promoted to sous, and Erica says every time management brings up hiring a new chef, Hale loses his mind.”

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek, wondering how bad it was. Wondering if maybe he’d just left a note, none of that would have happened. Then he wondered where the fuck that concern came from. Okay, his one night with Derek had been amazing—mind-blowing, in fact—but he didn’t know the guy. It was one orgasm, some kisses, some sweet nothings, and then Stiles’ dad had gotten shot and his life went to hell. He would not feel guilty for the way he left.

“Anyway, Boyd will diffuse any situation like…literally. He’s the perfect guy to run the kitchen. Most of the line hates the servers, and putting up with bad attitudes is kind of part of the job, but Boyd’s a great guy. And Erica will always step in and throw down the hammer if shit gets really bad.”

“And is Hale actually around a lot?” Stiles asked, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

Danny shrugged. “He supplies the morning pastries for the barista, so if you ever work that shift, you might see him. He also does the muffins for breakfast shifts. And he does special events. Holidays, celebrity banquets, shit like that. Otherwise, nah. And really, he’s not as bad as his first impression makes him seem.”

God, no one had any idea, and Stiles was starting to feel a little weird about the fact that he’d seen a side to Derek none of them had. Or well, as far as he knew. Danny hadn’t mentioned Derek dating anyone after Jennifer, but he had a feeling Derek wasn’t exactly the sharing is caring kind of guy anyway.

“So basically, try not to piss anyone off, remember your side-work, don’t be late for your shifts, and be willing to trade every once in a while. Erica said you’re not going to be here long…”

“I’m trying to get a teaching position at the University,” Stiles explained. “But it’s been crappy, and the fact that I had to withdraw my application for Grad school, and the fact that I didn’t exactly do that well my first year…” He trailed off with a sigh.

Danny gave him a sad-puppy look. “Hey man, I’m sorry about your dad.”

Stiles shook his head. “Nah. I mean, it was rough for a while, you know? But he pulled through. He’s back to work, and it’s not the same, but he’s still here.”

“Guess you can’t ask for more than that,” Danny supplied.

Stiles wanted to tell him that was a shitty cop-out—that Stiles could easily ask to be taken back to that night and find some way to prevent his dad from answering that call. But what would be the point? It was what it was. “Anyway, if I can keep my shit together and if my thesis is fucking amazing, I might have a shot. My dad keeps trying to convince me to apply elsewhere, but I don’t…” Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think I’m ready to be further than this. Not yet.”

“I get it,” Danny said.

Stiles was pretty sure he didn’t, but he appreciated the sentiment all the same. “Anyway so…work time?”

Danny nodded. “Come on. I’ll show you how exactly to be your server’s bitch. And it sounds like a rough gig, but when you realize you’re making decent money and working the easiest job of your life, you might start rethinking your future.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, but grinned. “Whatever you say, man,” and he followed him out onto the floor.

~*~ 

“Bar shift!” The voice was followed by a black shirt hitting Stiles in the face.

He dragged it down, and stared at Erica, wide-eyed. “Uh…”

“Come on, man. I’m working the bar tonight, I just had two of my cocktail servers quit on me, and I know you’re not officially trained, but you did this shit all through college. Tell me you’ve got this.”

Stiles sighed. “I’ve got this.” He was still a little shaky on the POS, the system updated and all fancy with touch-screens and floor charts, but it was all basically the same. And bar shifts were the easiest. He’d be bringing out well drinks on the rocks, and happy hour apps for a few hours. And the tips weren’t anything to sniff at.

Erica beamed at him. “Danny said you did well today.”

Stiles followed her into the side station where he stripped off his restaurant orange shirt, and began to button up the black one. “Dude, it wasn’t exactly rocket science. Refill drinks, remove table cloth, set new table cloth.”

“Yeah, but the people who stay here are _assholes_ ,” she said with a toothy grin. “Just wait until you get stuck on a Sunday brunch.”

Stiles groaned. He’d eaten at a few, so he knew it would be nothing short of an all-you-can-eat nightmare. “Tell me I have at least a few weeks before I have to suffer that.”

Erica shrugged. “Depends on what my schedule looks like this Saturday. You said you were free Sunday mornings.”

Which he had. In the mornings. Because he forgot about the fucking Sunday brunch. “I hate you.”

“You love me already,” she said, then reached over and gave his cheek a hard pat. Turning on her heel, she marched out as he finished tucking his shirt into his pants, and just as he was retying his apron, she returned with two small dixie cups, and thrust one at him.

Stiles stared into the bottom, at amber liquid filling half the cup. “What is this?”

“Shift shots. It’s the only way to survive.” She tipped her cup at him, then took hers in one smooth swallow.

Stiles sighed, then did the same, just barely not choking at the harsh burn of straight scotch. “Jesus. Really?”

“You’ll thank me later, Batman.” She tugged on his apron string, untying it, then flounced out. Stiles patted his pocket to check for his order pad and his keycard for the POS, and then followed her after. Just as he was clocking in, he watched as a large group of white dudes with weird, matching blonde hair styles, all dressed like they’d come fresh from 18 holes, and he groaned. It was going to be a long, long night.

~*~ 

“Here!” Erica shoved a piece of blank receipt paper with pen scribbles all over it, right into Stiles’ hand. “Take this to Chef Hale.”

Stiles blinked at her, panic flooding his stomach. “Uh. I have tables and…”

“I’ll handle it. That group of wine moms over there just ordered six fucking lava-cakes and Boyd says they’re out on the line.”

“He won’t give them to me,” Stiles protested.

She rolled her eyes. “That’s what the note is for, dumbass. He’ll know it’s from me. And when you get there, you park your happy-ass in that little kitchen and you don’t leave until you have a tray of at least twelve.”

Stiles groaned, but knew he couldn’t exactly tell his boss to fuck off, nor could he tell her why this might be the worst idea ever. Stiles had been working there a week now, and hadn’t run into Derek again. Now being in close proximity, Stiles felt terror that Derek was actually going to remember who he was, and then well…

There went any hope of this job, or any in the service industry if Derek had any pull.

He reached deep inside for what little courage he had, and tried to remember his way to the pastry kitchen through the maze of long, curving hallways.

He was there a lot quicker than he wanted to be. The silence of the empty halls at night was ringing in his ear, and the only sound was soft classical music in the distance. Stiles could hear the sound of a mixer though, as he stepped closer to the swinging doors, and he took a breath and let himself in.

Derek was there—there was no mistaking him, even in his chef’s whites and hat. Even with his back turned. Stiles was almost overcome with the memory of Derek’s mouth on his, of Derek’s hand gripping them both, stroking him to completion. Derek’s hand on his face, his soft voice near whisper-quiet telling Stiles he was beautiful.

Derek turned, and his eyes narrowed in a glower. “Get the hell out of my kitchen.”

Stiles thrust the paper at him. “Uh. Erica sent this.”

Derek’s face went resigned for a moment, before melting back into his irritated glare as he snatched it away from him. He read over the list and then snorted, muttering under his breath, “Fucking lava-cakes. Figures.” His eyes moved up, then narrowed on Stiles. “Wait here. Don’t fucking touch anything.”

Stiles put his hands behind his back like a misbehaving kindergartner, and stepped back toward the door. Derek waited a moment, then turned and walked to a long table covered in baking trays, bending low to what appeared to be a small fridge. He began to pull frozen cakes out, one by one, and set them up in rows of three.

Stiles breathed a little easier. Derek hadn’t fired him, hadn’t really yelled at him, hadn’t refused to give him the desserts. His eyes wandered, and they fell on what Derek had been working on before he came in. A long tray of petit fours, all chocolate coated with a dusting of gold flakes.

Stiles’ eyes widened. “Oh my god, you made them,” he blurted, then his entire face bloomed red as Derek turned and fixed his hard gaze on Stiles’ face. “You made those little cakes that I…”

“What.”

“I…” Stiles realized what he was doing, and he shook his head. “Sorry. Shutting up.”

Derek’s gaze lingered for a second, then he turned back and finished filling up the tray. “She gets nine,” Derek said, shoving it at Stiles so hard he was forced to take a step back. “After that, tell her they’re off the fucking menu. She knows better than this.”

“Yeah, I’m not going to mouth off to my boss,” Stiles told him.

Derek quirked an eyebrow. “You’re not going to like it if she sends you back to me. Find a more polite way to say it if you’re really that much of a coward.”

That last word hit Stiles like a punch to the gut, and his eyes frantically searched Derek’s face for any hint that he wasn’t talking about cakes. But there was nothing there. Nothing more than vague annoyance. He almost gave in to the urge to blurt out an apology, to beg Derek to understand, to remember and know Stiles wouldn’t have left for _any_ other reason.

But why bother? If he said it, and Derek still wouldn’t remember, it wouldn’t exactly look good. Definitely grounds to fire his ass then.

He let out a shaking breath and gripped the tray. “Okay. I…sorry to bother you. Have a good night, chef.”

With that, he fled, and though he didn’t tell Erica that Derek had banished him from the pastry kitchen, he was fortunate enough that the wine moms were satisfied with their chocolate fix, and the bar had cleared out by ten.

~*~ 

“Dude. I haven’t seen you all week.”

Stiles looked up from his crappy little plastic tray and saw Scott standing over him, arms crossed. He flushed with guilt, knowing Scott had expected to see him more now that they were working in the same place. But since the Big Derek Discovery, Stiles had been avoiding his best friend like the plague. After spending years waxing poetic about his lost love, and Scott ruthlessly mocking him for his Cinderella complex, Stiles didn’t know what to do.

He wasn’t about to tell Scott that the mystery man from the Balcony of The World’s Best Orgasm was actually the perpetually pissed off chef, Derek Hale. The chances of Scott believing him were a hundred percent, but the chances of Scott unintentionally spilling the beans and making Stiles’ life a thousand times harder were also a hundred percent.

It was a no-win.

So Stiles was bursting with the knowledge that he had solved his mystery, and had no one to talk to about it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been a shit week and when I’m not here, I’m drowning in research.”

Scott gave a tiny sigh as he eased down into the chair next to Stiles and reached over, stealing what was left of his burger. “Uhg. God, you need to come have lunch with me. We order off the menu in the sales offices.”

“Hey man, I’m just doing my hard time,” Stiles said, poking at his pile of half-cold curly fries. “And it’s better than the vending machine sandwiches at my last job. I’m pretty sure I shit out half an organ from all the food poisoning that gave me.”

Scott wrinkled his nose, laughing. “Yeah, alright. But still, at least come up sometime. Nepotism and all that.” After a pause, Scott asked, “How is it, by the way? Are you getting along with everyone?”

“Yeah. I didn’t know Danny was still here as a busser.”

Scott laughed, reaching over to now steal Stiles’ coke. “Yeah well, he’s also into some weird web shit with his brother. Last year they bought a time-share in Santa Barbara, so I’d say he’s doing alright.”

“Yeah,” Stiles replied. “It’s fucking crazy, though. He was flirting with me the other day like…I’m pretty sure he’d actually go for it if I was interested.”

“Why don’t you?” Scott pressed. “You wanted to suck his dick so bad in high school. Why not now?”

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek, unable to tell Scott exactly why. “I’m just…not feeling it.”

Scott rolled his eyes, throwing his head back with a loud groan. “Come on, dude. Mystery balcony guy _still_? That dude is long gone, and you have to give it a rest. If you don’t give your dick some attention, it’s going to fall off. That’s a scientific fact.”

Stiles threw a fry at Scott’s head. “You can shut the entire fuck up, by the way. And it has nothing to do with Der—with mystery balcony guy, okay? I’m just…not in the mood.”

“You’re still pining. It’s fucking disgusting, it’s…”

“This might be a break-room, but I’m not entirely sure this conversation is work appropriate.” The voice seemed to come out of nowhere, but it was entirely recognizable, and Stiles felt his heart beating in his throat as he turned his head to see Derek standing there with his arms crossed.

He was in his chef’s pants, but wore a plain, slightly flour-dusted black t-shirt, and had an imprint of his chef’s hat on his forehead which shouldn’t look attractive but fuck…it was.

Stiles quickly searched Derek’s face for any hint of recognition, any hint at all that he’d overheard them talking about mystery balcony guy and knew it was Stiles. But all that was there was a flat, blank annoyance.

“Hey, Derek. You’ve met Stiles, right?”

Derek turned cold eyes to Stiles, then nodded. “Lava cakes.”

Scott raised a brow, and Stiles flushed. “Erica made me bother chef in his kitchen for lava cakes. Which, if you’d care to notice,” Stiles said, turning back to Derek, “we didn’t bother you at all.”

“Which had everything to do with the text I sent her after you left, and nothing to do with you ignoring my warning,” Derek told him.

Stiles sighed. “Yeah well…it kept me out of your hair, didn’t it?”

Derek grunted, then brushed past Stiles to dump a paper bag full of day-old bagels on a baking tray for the employees. He gave the pair of them another quick look, then strolled out of the break room. When he was way out of ear-shot, Stiles slumped in his seat and gave a tiny sigh.

“He hates me.”

Scott shook his head. “Nah, man. I mean, maybe, but it’s not _you_. He pretty much hates everyone except Erica and Boyd, and sometimes Isaac. But don’t take it personally.”

“Oh trust me, I know it’s not personal,” Stiles replied, because it was true. He was certain of it now. Whatever impression he might have made on Derek those years ago, it wasn’t enough. It hadn’t held the weight Derek did in Stiles’ mind. Which…stung. But was par for the course in Stiles’ life. “Anyway, my dad wants to know if you want to come over for dinner on Sunday. Your mom’s going to be there.”

Scott smiled. “She already texted. And hell yes. He’s making his crock-pot smokies and I’m going to eat my weight in them during the game. Kira has me on this…I don’t know, cleanse thing, and I swear to god, my body is already trying to consume itself.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows, looking pointedly at the plate which was now empty of both half the burger, and the remaining curly fries.

“See!” Scott declared. “I’m eating other people’s food without even realizing it. I hope she knows this is killing me.”

Stiles reached out with his leg and gave Scott a shove. “Go get back to work, slacker. I’m going to sit here and think of absolutely nothing, just white noise until I have to get back to work and then research. But Sunday, yeah?”

“For sure.” Scott rose, clapping him on the shoulder before walking out, and he left Stiles alone to his moping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had most of this written already, so I probably won't be able to update again this quickly, but I'll do my best!


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles glanced down at the schedule, then back up at Isaac who was watching him with his eyebrows up. He shifted from one foot to the other, biting his lip. “I don’t know, man. That’s cutting into research time.”

“It’s good money,” Isaac said. “Trust me. It’s a tip-pool, but weddings like this, the gratuity is insane. Last year I ended up making like six grand during wedding season.”

Stiles fought the urge to start salivating at the idea of six grand in his bank account that didn’t come from the loans he was going to be spending the rest of his natural life paying back. “I…how long is this one?”

Isaac shrugged. “About six hours if you sign up for the whole thing. Or you can just do dinner service, and that’s about two hours of prep, one hour of service, then you can bail. I promise it’s really not that bad, though.”

Stiles had his dad’s on Sunday, and he usually didn’t like to spare his Saturday nights for anything but shoving his face in books and websites until he was cross-eyed. But he’d been at it for what felt like a groundhog day-style eternity and maybe a chance of evening would do him some good. If anything, he could refresh his brain a little. “Okay. Count me in.”

“Just sign up where you want to be,” Isaac said, handing him a pen. “Erica’s working it, too.”

Stiles froze, his hand halfway through his name, and he looked up. “Seriously? Like service?”

“Like I said, man, it’s good money. It’s hard to pass this up when you’re salary, you know? Trust me, they pay us well, but our hours are not compensated the way they should be.” Isaac snapped the clicky top of his pen a few times.

Stiles sighed, then finished taking the whole shift before handing it back. “Well, sounds like it could be fun. Or at least lucrative which, daddy needs a new laptop so…”

“If you could never call yourself that again in my presence, that would be great,” Isaac snarked at him. He walked back over to the schedule board and pinned the sign-up sheet there. “Every time there’s a banquet event, it’ll be here so you can sign up whenever. Also since the hotel’s going into our winter season—which is weirdly busy around here—there will be room service shifts up for grabs too. They’re not the greatest, but you get the drunk assholes ordering nachos at 11pm, and tip you twenty bucks in cash. And there’s no side-work so you can just sit around in Erica’s office and fuck around on her xbox until your shift is over.”

Or be responsible and study while also making money, Stiles realized. “Thanks man.”

Isaac shrugged and walked away like the pretentious ass he always was in High School. Stiles stood there a few minutes longer, until an arm snaked around his shoulder, and he smelled familiar cologne.

“So. You’ve decided to fall down the banquet rabbit hole with the rest of us?” Danny asked.

Stiles shrugged. “Isaac said it makes good money.”

“It actually does. It’s not like the typical smoke they try to blow up your ass about how pool shifts are better tips and how the richer the person, the more money they have to spend.”

Stiles couldn’t help his laugh, because he had discovered for himself over these last few weeks—people with money were stingy mother fuckers. He’d never been stiffed on so many checks than he had working the Fine Dining dinner shifts. Ten percent was added to every bill as automatic gratuity, but the way the people had him running around to fulfil their every whim, he deserved at least double that. And yet, he was lucky to get a few extra bucks thrown into the bill fold at the end of the night.

“We usually have a few drinks after, at Miguel’s,” Danny said, shaking Stiles gently out of his thoughts. “You should ride with me.”

Stiles raised a brow at him. “Seriously? Where was this shit in High School, man. I wanted your dick so bad.”

Danny gaped at him. “You didn’t say two words to me back then!”

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles said, elbowing him. “You were best friends with that piece of shit Jackson, you were starting line on the team, and you could literally have anyone you wanted. Tell me that if my pale, skinny, nerdy ass had propositioned you, you’d have been into it.”

Danny gave him a long, considering look, then said, “I always liked you, Stiles. You just sell yourself short too much.” He released him, then wandered off, leaving Stiles standing there, burning with a blush.

~*~ 

It was fun at first. The first hour, getting to know people on the staff he’d never met before, and even wearing the stiff, over-starched white shirts, vests, and bow-ties was an interesting change from the worn-out, orange or black uniforms for the restaurant and lounge. But Stiles hadn’t considered how fussy everything was going to be—how the fact that these people were paying more money than Stiles would probably ever see in his lifetime, all for some uppity wedding reception for two people who thought they were Kardashians was going to require an attention to detail that Stiles’ ADD didn’t exactly have.

He’d gone through plenty of therapy, developing coping skills to help him stay focused when he needed to, but after the twentieth table he’d had to sit with the forks, spoons, knives, plates, and glasses _just so_ , he was pretty sure his brain was leaking out his ears.

And that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that it was a buffet-style banquet, so most of the cooking staff was in the room getting it all set up. Which meant there was a massive dessert table, and it meant that Derek Hale—in his angry, hot glory—was meticulously arranging every tiny little truffle, and mille-feuille was exactly how it needed to be. 

Actually, the worst part of it was that Stiles was a thousand percent sure that the ball room this wedding was set up in was the one he’d first met Derek, and that half the desserts on the table were identical to the ones that Stiles and Derek had first bonded over. Stiles’ eyes kept raking the room, looking for that one tapestry that led to the secret door, which led to the secret balcony, but the wedding décor had taken over everything, and it had been so long ago, he couldn’t remember. He didn’t think there was a subtle way for him to go about finding out, either, so he was stuck lost in his memories of Derek’s mouth, and Derek’s hands, and enduring every time Isaac snapped at him for not getting each set-up exactly right.

Finally—fucking _finally_ the set up was over, and after a fifteen minute break, the wedding guests began to arrive. Stiles was out in the service hall resting his feet when he heard music start up, and some crappy DJ give an intro to the guests which had already arrived. Stiles’ main job was to ensure that if any of the dishes on the buffet table were running low, he found one of the chefs to refill it, to remove dirty plates, and to keep it looking pristine even though clumsy mouth-breathers would be spilling shit everywhere.

He knew he was making a couple hundred bucks on this thing, but he was starting to doubt the extra Starbucks in his future was worth it.

About an hour in, Stiles’ feet hurt, and he’d been physically accosted by several wedding guests demanding drink refills in spite of there being an open-bar and no drink service, and at least three drunk reception-goers had grabbed his ass as he passed by.

Stiles managed to sneak into the hall for a moment of reprieve, but before he could even get a full breath in, a hand clamped down on his shoulder and he spun, only to face Derek who was scowling fiercely. He was also distracted, his cheeks mottled pink and a phone pressed to his ear. There was a voice on the other end, high-pitched and shrieking, obviously not happy.

“Go down to my kitchen,” Derek said, covering the mouthpiece of the phone, “and get the tray of petit fours that are on the main table.” When Stiles hesitated for half a second, Derek glowered at him. “Now!”

Half torn between saying fuck you to this job, shoving his middle finger in Derek’s face, and grabbing Derek and saying, You had your tongue in my mouth once, Stiles decided he’d better just do his fucking job. And anyway, the walk to the kitchen was five minutes there and five back, so it was ten without random terrible rich people breathing down his neck.

If he took even longer than that well, he could just claim that he got lost.

When Stiles arrived at the kitchen, he saw the trays of white-chocolate covered petit fours on the baking table, and as there was nothing else laid out, he assumed that was what Derek was talking about. He loaded the trays onto the serving cart, and slowly maneuvered them back to the reception hall. He took the back entrance, which opened right to the dessert table, and he ignored a few of the people staring at him as he carefully began to unload them on the rapidly emptying display.

A woman elbowed her way over—fiercely blonde in a pale blue dress, looking important like maybe she was part of the wedding party. Stiles opened his mouth to say something since she was staring, but a shadow loomed over him and he looked up to see Derek.

“Thank you,” Derek said gruffly, not sounding thankful at all.

The woman huffed, then reached past to grab one of the small cakes, and bit into it. There was a moment of silence, then a loud shrieking sound. “What is this? We specifically requested no strawberry! It was in our contract! There is an allergy you moron!” Stiles took a step back as suddenly the woman was in Derek’s face, a foot smaller yet still backing him down with her sharp nail centimeters from his eye. “You know, when Jennifer warned me not to come here, I almost listened. But my sister said her meeting went well, said that Jen was probably exaggerating because you’re her ex. But you’re just as useless and incompetent as she said you were!”

Stiles panicked, and in hindsight he couldn’t say what made him do it, but he stepped forward without really thinking and managed to get in between the woman and Derek. “It was me. It was my fault.”

“Stiles,” Derek hissed at him.

Stiles ignored him. “Chef Hale asked me to get the cakes, and he told me exactly which ones to grab, but I wasn’t paying attention. I took the wrong tray. These are for a different party. It wasn’t him.”

Derek suddenly had Stiles by the collar as the woman began yelling for a manager. “Go to my office. Now. It’s through my kitchen, around the dry food storage.”

Stiles’ ears were ringing, and he felt a vague wash of panic climbing up his spine as he turned and rushed out, more people now yelling at Derek for the mistake. Eventually, as Stiles made his way along the winding corridors, the voices faded to nothing, and he realized what he’d done. He’d thrown himself in front of the proverbial shot, and had taken the metaphorical bullet for Derek.

And for what? Some asshole chef who’d gotten him off once and didn’t even have the balls to _remember_ it? But the image of Derek’s panicked, horrified face kept flooding his memory, and Stiles couldn’t bring himself to regret what he’d done. Whatever the mistake, it had been honest, and better Stiles get let go as a server, than Derek’s reputation suffer. This wasn’t Stiles’ life, or his career, or his future.

But it was Derek’s.

He reached the office without really realizing it, and the door was locked. After a moment of hesitation, he glanced back and saw a few empty, green milk crates, and sat down. He managed to keep his panic in check, reminding himself that losing his job wasn’t going to be the end of anything. Sure, he liked it here. He liked working with Scott, he enjoyed the casual flirtation with Danny, and knowing his friends were nearby. He loved working with Erica, and the tips really were decent.

But he wasn’t losing out on much just because of this, and he hoped that taking the fall for Derek meant at least a good reference for the future. Or at least not getting blacklisted from the service industry.

It felt like an eternity before Stiles heard footsteps, but when he checked his phone he realized it had only been twenty minutes. Derek froze as he came around the corner, then sighed and walked to his office, pulling out his keys.

“I forgot,” he muttered, pushing the door open.

The air was almost too-cold, but the shock of it was almost a relief from the oppressive, slightly humid air of the active kitchen. It smelled nice, too, like lavender and something crisp—maybe aloe. It was a small office, with clutter all over the desk, but the guest chair was comfortable, and the lighting was low as Derek flipped the switch, then sat in his own, more plush chair.

After a beat of silence, Derek leaned toward him over the desk. “You have to meet with Jackson Whittemore in the morning.”

Stiles couldn’t stop his groan. “Seriously. _Why?_ ”

Derek scoffed at him, his eyebrows going up. “Because you decided it was a good idea to take the blame for a potentially fatal mistake!”

Stiles threw up his hands. “I was saving your ass, you dick! That woman was about to claw your eyes out, and I…”

The room was tense, and Derek’s jaw was clenched hard. “And?” he pressed.

Stiles deflated. “And I figured better some random server lose his job than you having your record shit on.”

Derek’s body was one long line of tension, but it melted away as he sank back into his seat. “It was my fault.”

Stiles blinked at him. “What?”

“The cakes. I…I had gotten the order sheets mixed up, and I wasn’t paying attention. It was a long day, and I fucked up.”

Licking his lips, Stiles shrugged. “Everyone makes mistakes, okay? And no one actually got hurt.”

“But they could have. This is a serious issue. You still shouldn’t have taken the blame. Whoever did your training was supposed to tell you that. You never take the blame, even if it was your fuck up.”

“…oh,” Stiles said quietly.

“If there’s a law suit…” Derek said, and trailed off.

“Is there one? Like is this…”

“No,” Derek said swiftly. “Laura’s going to make it up to them with a lot of comps and probably expensive champagne, and they’ll trash us on yelp but whatever.” After another long pause, Derek finally looked up at him. “You’re not fired.”

Stiles almost laughed, but managed to keep it at a small snort. “Thanks, man. I’d have survived, but it’s hard to find a job that’s going to work around my schedule, you know. And uh…I didn’t realize it was that critical. With the strawberry.”

“I just don’t understand,” Derek said after a moment. “Why did you do it?”

“I told you…” Stiles began.

“Yes, but why. I’ve been an asshole to you. To everyone. I’m well aware of my reputation. So why?”

Stiles wanted to tell him the truth. Tell him that he’d half fallen in love that one night, and hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since then. But frankly that wasn’t entirely it, and as much as Derek was an ass, he was a good chef, and he didn’t deserve to have his life ruined by one mistake. “Everything else that night was gorgeous. I haven’t been to a lot of fancy shit in my life, but I’ve been to some, and you…clearly you care about what you do. It was one mistake, and the way she was acting like you tried to intentionally ruin the wedding?” Stiles scoffed. “She was a bitch.”

Derek’s lip quirked up at the corner and he shrugged. “I’ve dealt with worse, believe me. And if you stick around here long enough, so will you. But I…” He hesitated a second. “Thank you. There’s going to be an inevitable shit-storm after this, but…thank you.”

Stiles shrugged. “I feel like having to deal with Jackson tomorrow will be punishment enough.” When Derek raised a curious brow, Stiles sighed. “I knew him in high school. He was an epic douche, and he didn’t get better after law school.”

Derek snorted, but anything he was going to say was interrupted by what sounded like a text chime. He fished out his phone and read it, then looked up at Stiles. “Laura wants you to meet with Jackson tomorrow around five in the afternoon. Will that work?”

Stiles hesitated. “I uh…I kind of have plans…”

“Don’t you think your date will understand?” Derek said, slightly terse.

Stiles huffed a small laugh. “Well, that date is my dad—we have a weekly dinner thing on Sundays when I have the time. And yes, he’ll understand.”

Derek looked at least slightly abashed as he tucked his phone away. “It probably won’t take long.”

“It just means my dad has extra time to sneak in doritos or whatever shit Scott smuggles him. It’s no big.” Stiles fell silent, biting his lip as he had no idea what to do now. Here he was, in Derek’s office, and the guy was actually being nice. Or well, cordial at the very least. “So should I uh…”

“No,” Derek said with a wry grin. “You should change and head home. There’s not a lot you can do here, and as much as I would love to see that woman give herself a rage-stroke if you walked back out there, I’d rather avoid the mess and the paperwork.”

Stiles couldn’t help his laugh. “Okay fair. And uh, thanks for having my back. I really didn’t mean to make the situation worse.”

Derek stared at him, then as Stiles backed up toward the door, he stood up. “You had my back first. You’re not going to lose the job, okay? I promise.”

“Okay,” Stiles breathed out. He wanted to tell Derek that it didn’t matter, that he’d easily survive with out it, but he didn’t want to ruin what tentative thing existed between them now. Maybe Derek didn’t remember that night, but for the first time since seeing Derek again, Stiles realized he might have a do-over. And he’d be damned if he squandered it a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's amazing what you can accomplish when you spend all day doing literally nothing in a post-finals haze.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Discussions about a suicide that occurred in the Resort. If this is triggering to you, skip the part that begins with _“I get it,” Derek said. “I mean, I don’t get it. I guess I’ve been profoundly lucky in that regard._ and ends with _Stiles dragged his bottom lip between his teeth. “She’s stronger than I am.”_
> 
> It's mentioned again starting with: _Stiles sat up straight, pointing a finger at Scott. “J’accuse, McCall!_ and ends with _Stiles tried not to imagine Derek all wet, clothes sticking to his body._

“I’m so fired,” Stiles said quietly, squeezing the edges of his phone. His other hand clutched at his paper coffee cup, the heat stinging his fingers a little, but it was a nice distraction from the stress of knowing he was about to face, of all people, Jackson Whittemore who no doubt was relishing in this moment to tell Stiles that he was being shit-canned.

“Dude, they’re not going to fire you over this. Trust me, way more crazy shit has happened at this hotel. Last year, there were some guys here from this golf tournament and two of the room service agents got caught delivering _special desserts_.” Scott leaned in toward his phone camera, and Stiles could hear a muffled sigh through the speaker. “And one of those same girls later got caught in Theo’s office, giving him the same after dinner special.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Dude, you can just say blow job. Those weird, dad-joke-level innuendos are making my heartburn worse.”

Scott shook his head. “Just try not to be a huge dick to Jackson, let him say his stupid piece, then you can go.”

“And if I get fired?” Stiles pressed.

Scott sighed. “Then I’ll use that one thing I still have on Jackson to ensure you get an amazing letter of recommendation for your next job.”

Stiles’ eyebrows shot up. “Oh my god, you mean the thing with the towel, and Coach’s Independence Day DVD?”

Scott’s smile stretched wide. “Yup. I’ve been saving that for something really, really good. Anyway, I have to go. I promised your dad I’d pick something up from Madeline’s…”

“If it’s Boston Cream Pie, Scott, I’m disowning you,” Stiles said quickly. “You know he’s not supposed to…” But the phone screen went blank as Scott ended the call.

Scoffing, Stiles shoved the phone back into his pocket, then leaned back. His knee was bouncing to the rhythm of his anxiety, and he hated how weak this made him feel. No matter how much he told himself that this job didn’t really matter, that it wasn’t like he was going to lose much if he couldn’t work here anymore, it still threatened to choke him.

He was nearly beside himself when the door to the offices opened, and he almost jumped out of his seat when Derek walked in. Stiles had seen him in exactly two places. The first, dressed to the nines in the fancy tux and mask, and then at work where the most casual he’d ever been was a frosting-stained under-shirt. But now, Derek was wearing jeans, artfully ripped and hugging his ass in all the right places, and a tight, mauve Henley. He carried a leather jacket over his arm, and if the situation hadn’t felt so damn dire, Stiles might have lost his shit right then and there.

As it was, he felt his neck and cheeks start to heat up when their eyes met, but luckily Derek didn’t linger and stare at him. His gaze flickered to Jackson’s door which remained tightly shut, and then he rolled his eyes and sighed, flopping down in the chair next to Stiles. “He’s taking his time just to be a douche,” Derek rumbled.

Stiles’ laugh was tight, and a little hysterical sounding. From the nerves. “Yeah well, he’s just being true to his nature. Anyway what uh…what are you doing here?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Considering I was the one who made the damn strawberry-filled cakes…”

“Yeah but,” Stiles started, then fell silent. “Right.”

Derek shook his head, but instead of the irritated, murderous glower he usually gave, he looked almost…fond. “You can stop looking like you’re about to face a firing squad, you know. It’s just a formal reprimand. You can’t tell me you’ve never had one of those.”

Stiles couldn’t help another laugh, but this one was slightly more relaxed. “When Scott and I were about sixteen, we snuck onto a crime scene because I wanted to see a dead body in real life. Scott puked, I passed out, and we spent two hours being shouted at in the Sheriff’s office.”

Derek snorted. “I…don’t find that hard to believe at all, actually. I’m sure your parents were thrilled.”

“Considering my dad was the sheriff,” Stiles said, trailing off.

Derek’s light gaze turned sharp suddenly, eyes narrowed. “He was the Sheriff? He’s not now?”

Stiles shrugged, clearing his throat. “Uh. Yeah. He still works there, just…you know. He uh, he got shot and it paralyzed him so he had to…well, things changed. Anyway, I was a terrible kid, and I had no shortage of being dragged into the offices of authority so. No big.”

“Right,” Derek said, but his voice sounded strange, tight and almost hoarse.

Before either of them could say more, however, the door opened again, and a tall brunette woman with narrowed eyes almost identical to Derek’s walked in. Before Stiles could ask, Derek dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus, Laura. What are you doing here?”

“Cleaning up messes, Derek,” she snapped back. “This must be Stiles?”

Stiles felt his whole face flush red as he realized this was Laura Hale, who pretty much ran the Triskelion. “Uh. Yes?”

“I’d yell at you first, but I think having to sit through one of Jackson’s risk management lectures is punishment enough. And anyway, it wasn’t your fault. This idiot has been off his game,” she pointed her finger at Derek.

“You know what,” Derek started, then shook his head and finished in a quiet voice, “just…don’t.”

Laura softened. “It’s fine. Everyone fucks up. A three day weekend in the Presidential Suite, two bottles of Cristal, and a voucher for the spa, and problem solved.”

Stiles blinked. “Seriously?”

She shrugged. “People only yell like that when they want free shit. Trust me, it’s cheaper than having to deal with litigation. They would have lost, but Jackson’s retainer would have cost way more than a few freebies so…” She spread her hands out. “Anyway, we do this at least a dozen times a year. And it’s not like I really want to make Derek’s favorite server miserable, anyway.”

Stiles almost choked on his own tongue, especially when Derek gave her the most mortified look Stiles had ever seen. But the entire moment was interrupted by the door opening, and Jackson leaning against the door jamb with his arms crossed looking like an epic tool in his suit.

“Stilinski,” he drawled.

Stiles fought the urge to roll his eyes, remembering what Scott said. Let Jackson have his moment, because when the time was right, they had an ace in the hole in the form of a wet towel, and a DVD. “Yeah, yeah, let’s get this over with.”

Jackson stepped aside for Stiles, Derek, and Laura to enter. “Have a seat, Stiles, and let me explain to you why in this hotel you never, ever, ever admit something was your fault.”

~*~ 

Stiles swore time had started moving backward by the time Jackson was done with his lecture. But Stiles sat there, stoic and diligent as Jackson rambled on and on, and eventually they were allowed to leave. By the end of it, only Derek and Stiles were left—Laura giving her piece quickly at the beginning, then escaping before she had to sit through the madness.

Stiles wasn’t entirely sure why Derek stayed. Maybe a witness was necessary, or maybe it was solidarity. Whatever it was, Stiles felt profoundly grateful he had someone to share That Look with when they were finally dismissed.

“Come on,” Derek said when they lingered in the quiet hall, “I need a damn triple-shot after that, and the barista is closed so we won’t have to deal with guests.”

Stiles felt startled by that, but didn’t argue as Derek led the way to the stairs, opening the door to the server hallway. They weren’t far from the barista, and when they stepped into the darkened coffee shop, Stiles felt a hundred miles away from anything familiar. Derek flipped on the pastry case light so he could see, and quickly began packing espresso into the portafilter.

“You want something?” Derek asked.

Stiles bit his lip, then said, “London Fog? I can’t really have that much caffeine this late.” He glanced at his phone and saw he was over an hour late for his dad’s. He knew he should just thank Derek and get the hell out of there, but he was terrified to let this moment between them go.

Derek shrugged, didn’t mock Stiles for the tea instead of coffee, and quickly threw a bag of earl grey into one of the cups. He worked the machine like an expert—which in a way was surprising since a lot of the management couldn’t work the coffee carafe let alone the espresso machine. But it was fascinating to watch his hands work, to see the skill in each motion. For a moment, Stiles let himself wonder what it would be like to see Derek in his element, crouched over a baking table drawing intricate designs on each and every little cake and truffle.

He ached for it. Mostly because he knew the talent in those hands, and he wanted him still, even after all this time.

“So,” Derek said, the sound of his voice making Stiles jump, “aren’t you late for something?” He handed over the tea, and Stiles took a sip, almost groaning at the perfect taste.

“I already told my dad I’d be late tonight. I uh…I try to spend as much time with him as I can, but grad school is kicking my ass, and I’m trying to earn some cash while I can, you know? When he first got hurt, I had to quit school, and his settlement was enough to keep us afloat, but the insurance was garbage. So I stayed at home with him.”

In the dim light, Stiles could see the soft look on Derek’s face. “Not a lot of people would do that these days.”

Stiles sighed, leaning against the counter. “No, I guess not. But he’s all I’ve got. My mom died when I was a kid, and when he got shot I…” Stiles trailed off, licking his lips. “Even after she died, even after I became well aware that mortality existed, he still seemed immortal, you know? Like nothing could happen. So after that, when he got hurt…”

“I get it,” Derek said. “I mean, I don’t get it. I guess I’ve been profoundly lucky in that regard. But growing up in a hotel like this, you see a lot. Two years ago, a couple checked in for a charity golf tournament. The husband went out to play golf, and his wife shot herself in their room.”

“Holy shit,” Stiles breathed. “What…uh. What do you even do when that happens?”

Derek shrugged. “We moved all the guests from that wing, and when the detectives got what they needed, a clean-up crew came in, and two nights later, we had the room occupied again. The husband couldn’t leave until the detectives were done with their initial investigation, so we put him up in a suite on the other side of the resort.” Derek thumbed the rim of his latte as Stiles stared at him in open horror.

“God,” Stiles said. “That’s so…”

“I know,” Derek replied, still not looking up. “Laura cried every night for two weeks.”

Stiles dragged his bottom lip between his teeth. “She’s stronger than I am.”

“I don’t think so.” Derek finally looked up at him, and there was something heavy in his eyes, and it felt…important. “You should probably get going,” he said after a minute. “I don’t want to keep your dad waiting.”

Stiles hesitated. “We’re having pizza, you know, if you wanted to…uh. I mean, if you don’t have plans or anything. It’s kind of lame but you know,” he trailed off with a shrug.

Derek smiled, a shy, soft thing as he glanced down into his cup. “I can’t. I have way too much work to finish. But…thanks.”

Stiles felt bereft, but not in a way that felt like rejection, more just that Derek was just trying to be gentle. It’s not like either of them owed each other anyway. It was one night, and Stiles was fixated, and Derek didn’t even remember. But Laura’s words still rang in his head. _Derek’s favorite server._ That wasn’t nothing.

“Maybe next time,” Stiles said, then gave the counter a quick pat and pushed away from it. “Don’t work too long.”

Derek huffed a soft laugh, but he didn’t follow Stiles out.

~*~ 

Scott greeted him with a beer in hand, eyebrows raised up near the curls that fell over the slope of his forehead. “Well? Are you fired? Are we breaking out the towel DVD story?”

Stiles sighed, grabbing the beer and flopping onto the couch near the end where his dad was sitting. He kicked one leg up onto the coffee table, then grumbled when his dad knocked knuckles into his thigh to move it off. “I’m not fired. Derek Hale showed up, then his _sister_ showed up, then Jackson talked for like nine hours, and they let me go.”

Noah raised one eyebrow. “That’s all?”

“I mean, it could be worse,” Stiles offered. “They gave whoever from the wedding party some suite, and some fancy champagne, and some spa vouchers, and everything was fine and dandy. All I had to do was suffer through Jackson telling me how next time I just keep my fat mouth shut and let them deal with it. Which god forbid there _is_ another time, I will. No need to throw myself in front of a metaphorical train if it’s not actually going to hit Derek. Or uh…someone else.”

“Uh huh,” Noah said, giving him a pointed look.

“What? Shut up. No one asked you,” Stiles grumbled, but leaned into his dad and let his head flop onto his shoulder.

“Well, Jackson isn’t wrong, you know,” Scott pointed out. “I’ve worked there long enough to know that spa vouchers, free rooms, and fancy champagne solves most problems.”

Stiles sat up straight, pointing a finger at Scott. “J’accuse, McCall! Why didn’t you ever tell me that some lady _committed suicide_ in a room, and they just like…moved her husband into another wing and sold the room _the next day_! Like literally, apparently that solved the whole, hey my wife just died issue too. What the actual fuck?”

Scott looked only a little bit guilty. “I wasn’t actually there that weekend but uh yeah. That did happen, and I don’t know, man. I mean, it’s not like it was the resort’s fault, and that’s just how stuff is run. I remember Laura was kind of a mess though. A few nights after the guy left, she just kind of…lost it. She sectioned off the grill and everyone got wasted. Even Derek showed up for that one. I think Boyd shoved him into the pool.”

Stiles tried not to imagine Derek all wet, clothes sticking to his body. Not while he was sitting there on his dad’s couch. “Anyway…”

“Is there something you need to tell me, son?” Noah asked pointedly.

Stiles shook his head. “Nope. Nothing at all. Scott, where’s the pizza?”

Scott sighed, and pushed up from the chair. “Yeah, yeah. I need to go pick it up. Angelo’s driver called out, so he’s giving us free cannoli for our trouble. I’m getting chocolate chip.”

“Get cinnamon for me,” Noah shouted as Scott moved toward the door.

“Get him a salad!” Stiles called over him. The door slammed, and Stiles eased back, but noticed his dad was still staring. “Can you please not?”

“My son, my _only_ son, is keeping something from me. And he seems to forget that I might not be in the field, but I haven’t lost my years of training, and I can tell when something is going on with him.”

“He is right here,” Stiles said, a little grumpy, “and he doesn’t appreciate this weird narrative you’ve got going on. And anyway, it’s nothing. Just my raging man-pain.”

Noah snorted and rolled his eyes. “I’m getting more beer.” He started to reach for his chair, but Stiles stopped him.

“I can.”

“So can I,” Noah said, pushing Stiles back before easing into his chair. He pushed the brake up, then wheeled back. “You can sit here and think about exactly how you want to word what you’re about to tell your old man. Or I’ll call you out in front of Scott, and it’s clear he doesn’t know yet, either.”

Stiles groaned and flopped his head back onto the cushion, squeezing his eyes shut. He could hear his dad wheeling into the kitchen, the sound of the fridge opening and closing, the gentle clink as his dad held the bottles between his legs as he made his way back.

Instead of getting back on the couch, his dad moved to Stiles’ other side and bumped his leg with the foot rest of his chair. “Spill. Don’t make me get the interrogation lamp.”

Stiles huffed and took the bottle from his dad’s hand, setting it next to the mostly full one Scott had given him when he walked in. “It’s…just an existential crisis. Nothing major.” His dad looked unimpressed, so he dragged a hand down his face and groaned loudly. “Ugh, fine. Okay. So…uh. So the night you…that all that happened. Your accident,” Stiles fumbled, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of his father. “I was at that party.”

“Yeah. The one you insisted wasn’t kinky sex party,” Noah said.

“Please never, ever say kinky sex party to me ever again,” Stiles demanded. “And yes. That was the one. I met this person, this guy. He was in a mask, I was in a mask, it was all good fun. We were making out on the balcony,” which was as much as he ever planned on telling his _dad_ , “and then he got a call, and he told me to wait for him. So I was standing there like a complete tool…”

“This story either ends with him standing you up, or with you getting the phone call about my injury,” his dad said in a quiet voice.

“Yeah. That would be the latter,” Stiles confessed. “I wasn’t thinking straight, you know? I just…ran. You were hurt, so I ran, and I didn’t know his name or anything about him.”

“Jesus, Stiles,” his dad groaned.

“What?” Stiles defended. “It’s not like I made a habit of making out with total strangers. I was going to ask him, but we got interrupted, then I had to leave. So it was all fine and whatever, I was over it. Except that I started working at the Triskelion and it turns out, he works there. I thought he was just a guest that night. I didn’t realize he was the son of the freaking owner.”

Noah choked on his beer. “Your epic love story is with the son of Talia Hale?”

Stiles flushed. “Maybe? Uh. But that’s the other thing, he doesn’t even remember. Like, I thought maybe he did, because he was a huge dick to me when I first started. But it turns out he’s like that to everyone, and now I think we’re…maybe not friends, but he doesn’t seem to detest me anymore. Except none of that actually matters because he has no idea who I am and basically my life is garbage and the universe just wants to see me suffer.”

Noah was quiet for a while, then he said, “So what are you doing about it?”

Stiles looked up, startled. “What do you mean? Obviously I’m not doing anything. Except moronically acting like a hero when it’s totally not necessary and taking the blame for something he actually did. Which you know, went over _so well_.”

Noah’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “Well, it sounds like it didn’t go terribly.”

Stiles shrugged, looking away, sullen and not really in the mood for all this. “I thought maybe if we got to know each other again, things would be different. And like I said, he’s not awful to me anymore, but I also don’t think he’s going to be interested in dating me.”

“He was once before, wasn’t he?” Noah challenged.

Stiles shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he was just looking for a one-night thing, and he wasn’t actually going to come back to that balcony at all.”

Noah picked at the label on his bottle, then said, “When I first met your mom, I made an ass of myself. We were twenty-one, and we were at this house party that one of the frats was throwing. We were swimming, and I made a lewd joke, and she…” Noah laughed quietly. “Well, she never let me forget it. I was pretty sure I had ruined it, but I liked her way too much to just give up. So I made it up to her. I bought her flowers, and I asked her out, and for whatever reason, she gave me a second chance. I’m not sure we have any real Stilinski charm, but whatever you’ve got, well, it worked for me. And I have you to show for it. So maybe don’t give up just yet.”

“God, I hate you,” Stiles groaned, just like he did every time his father managed to tell him exactly what he needed to hear.

Noah laughed, clapping him on the knee. “Nah, son. You really don’t. Now, how about the two of us dig into that Boston cream pie before Scott gets back?”

~*~ 

Ten am, and Stiles was working in the empty barista, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Derek. He glanced over at Liam, who was working the counter, then made a snap decision. Throwing a couple of shots together, Stiles mixed up the drink he’d seen Derek making that quiet day in the dark barista, and threw an insulated sleeve over it.

“Hey, you got this for a few minutes? I need to go run this to someone.”

Liam glanced up from where he was surreptitiously playing with his phone under the counter. “Yeah, man. I’m good.”

Stiles pulled his apron off, then grabbed the coffee and made his way through the maze of hallways until he came to a stop in front of the pastry kitchen. It was quiet, apart from music like before, and he could smell something fresh and baking.

Steeling his reserve, he pushed the swinging door open, and stopped when he saw Derek leaned over the counter, placing intricately created chocolate mint leaves on the tops of little cakes. Derek’s shoulders tensed at the intrusion, but when he glanced up, his face instantly softened.

“Stiles. I wasn’t expecting you.”

Stiles shuffled from one foot to the other, then set the coffee on the edge of the counter. “I just thought maybe you could use a pick-me-up. I have a feeling you’ve been here way too long.”

Derek chuckled softly, and his eyes were bright, the corner of his mouth staying quirked into that little, half-smile. “Just a bit too long,” he said softly. He put his tweezers down, then swiped his hands on the front of his jacket before reaching for the latte. He took a long drink, and his smile widened. “It’s perfect. Thanks.”

Stiles flushed a little, but nodded. “No worries. Anyway I’m on shift but uh…I just wanted to run that down for you.”

A strange look crossed Derek’s face, but when Stiles backed up toward the door, he didn’t stop him. Just before Stiles was out, he heard Derek’s voice call after him, “See you around?”

Stiles turned and shot him a grin. “Definitely.” He kept the grin the entire way back to the coffee counter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter: A customer verbally berates Stiles during a shift, and throws a sizzling pan at him, causing a burn. The injury isn't described in graphic detail, but take care if character injury or burns is triggering for you.

It was Erica’s fault, Stiles decided. It was her fault for walking up to Stiles with a guy at her side and saying, “Stiles, this is Matt, and he’s going to be shadowing you for the week.” Not that Erica had been in charge of hiring the guy or anything, but a week of Stiles’ life being absolute hell because Matt was an incompetent moron who spent most of his time making eyes at the front desk staff and being generally terrible at his job, made Stiles a little cranky.

“Since when do I even train people, Erica. I’ve been here like a month.” He leaned back in the swivel chair in her office and watched her as she shoveled cereal into her mouth. His eyes flickered over to the corner of her desk where she had Golden Graham to-go bowls stacked up, then he glanced back at her. “Uh. Okay that’s a weird thing to eat at 3pm, right?”

Erica shrugged. “First of all, you’ve been here two and a half months. And it disturbs me that someone working on his thesis is unaware of the passage of time.”

“Listen, you have no idea the time-suck, black-hole, Doctor Who-level shit research has me in, okay,” Stiles whined.

She shook her head. “And secondly I’m craving cereal, sue me.”

“Why, are you pregnant?” he asked. As a _joke_. Except her face did a thing and his stomach dropped. “Oh shit. Oh my god, who knows? Erica! Erica, you were carrying trays yesterday! You can’t carry trays and be pregnant! You’re wearing a belt, what if you’re suffocating the fetus!”

She stared at him, her face dangerously blank. “Are you done?” she asked when his rant trailed off. He nodded, but when he opened his mouth again, she held up a sharp-nailed finger. “Shut up. No one knows yet. Well, Boyd knows because he was in the bathroom with me when I was using the pee-stick. I think I’m like six weeks maybe? But I’m not telling anyone, and neither are you, or I will rip your tongue from your mouth and you’ll have to give your defense on white-board.”

“I wonder if having my tongue ripped out will get me out of having to _do_ a defense,” he mused, then blinked himself back to reality. “Anyway I wouldn’t tell anyone. Just…Jesus, shouldn’t you be taking it easy?”

“I’m pregnant, not dying, Stiles,” she said with a huff. “Also Boyd has already annoyed me beyond reason with the whole, should you be carrying that? Shouldn’t you have your feet up? I read this thing online about kale. I swear to god, one more piece of unsolicited advice and this is going to be his _only_ child.”

Stiles couldn’t help his grin, even if he surreptitiously crossed his legs. “Okay anyway…congrats? I think?”

She shrugged. “I love Boyd. It’s really not a big deal. I’m just also really not into the whole pregnant lady trope. Just let me fucking live, that’s all I ask.”

“Fine, but I’m cutting you off the Barista,” Stiles said, pointing a finger at her. “I might not know much about babies, but I know that.”

She huffed, but didn’t argue which told Stiles that she was at least aware that smoking, drinking, and excessive caffeine was on the no list. “Can we get back to your whining about Matt now? Because that sounds a lot better than thinking about how I won’t be having sweet, sweet Hotategai for the next eight months.”

Stiles pulled a face, but shrugged. “I’m just saying the guy is an actual moron, and I’m pretty sure the other night when Isaac was on the line with Boyd, he was about to jump through the window and strangle the guy to death. And frankly that would have made the night more bearable.”

Erica sighed. “I know. He saw that you and Matt were working the dinner shift tonight and he threatened to walk. Apparently he and Boyd have a little tally going behind the line for every time Matt either fucks up or annoys them.”

Stiles tried to cover his laugh, and Erica glowered at him. “What? I mean, it’s not like I blame them. Yesterday he brought grapefruit juice to three tables who hadn’t ordered it. Three, Erica. Like, three separate, individual times. Who even does that? I know this job is harder than it seems, but it’s not that fucking hard!”

“I don’t know what you want from me, Stiles. I don’t hire these people. It’s my job to train them, and I know you’ve only been here a few months, but you’re good at it, and the guests like you.”

Stiles stared at her. “The guests like me,” he repeated flatly.

“Most of them like you,” she amended, thinking of a few, choice moments Stiles had gotten a few complaints because he was too loud, or too talkative, or not Fine Dining enough. But she wasn’t wrong, either. For the most part, the guests found Stiles charming, and he even had some Saturday night regulars in the lounge. “I thought you might be a good influence.”

Stiles groaned. “Can’t you torture someone else for a while. I have it on good authority that Theo is a complete douche and I feel like he and Matt will get along great.”

“The last time I let Theo train anyone, they quit. That day,” Erica said. “My job is retention, dude. Not to chase them out.”

Stiles scrubbed his face. “Pretty fucking _please_ , just after this week put him on a different rotation. I will give you foot rubs literally every shift.”

She grinned wolfishly. “I will hold you to that. Your word is binding, Stiles.”

“God, you’re lucky I actually like you, Catwoman,” he said, but couldn’t help a smile back. “Also you’re pregnant, and I feel weirdly hard-wired to help take care of you so…I don’t actually mind.”

“Jesus, you are too good for this world,” Erica said, giving him an almost awed look. “I cannot believe you’re single.”

Stiles rose, knowing that was his cue to get out before he started saying stupid, stupid things about a Pastry Chef too hot to be good for his health. “Yeah well, I’m working on it. See you later?”

“I’ll be here all night, Batman.” She waved him off, and he walked out to grab a shift meal before the madness began.

~~

The night started out like any other—with Matt fucking up, and Stiles trying to keep both Isaac and Boyd calm, and the hotel was at only twenty-two percent occupancy so they weren’t expecting a crowd, and it was easy to keep the guests relaxed in spite of the mistakes.

Then fate decided that it wanted to have a little fun.

It began with the flooding down at the Fountain Hills resort twenty miles north of the Triskelion. The hotel was suddenly flooded with displaced, irritated guests who decided the best way to cope with having to switch resorts was by all heading into the restaurant at the same time. Stiles stared with wide eyes, subconsciously moving closer to Erica as he watched poor Liam attempt to get everyone seated with menus. Stiles watched as thirteen tables sat down, and then he looked over at Matt who wore a vaguely sick expression on his face.

“What. The fuck,” Stiles whispered.

“I’m going to get back up in the kitchen, okay?” she said. “Just…split the room, do your best, and never will I ever say this again—but try not to upsell.”

Stiles swallowed, then beckoned Matt over as Erica rushed through the swinging doors. “Look man, it’s already been a long night, and we’re probably going to get a few more tables after this. Tell me right now if you don’t think you can handle this.”

Matt blinked, then squared his shoulders. “It’s fine.”

Stiles didn’t entirely believe him, but he didn’t have much choice in the matter. He quickly mapped out a plan of action in his head, then grabbed his order pad and started his rounds. With the chaos, he had very little time to pay attention to what Matt was doing. He informed the tables that liquor would take longer, as would apps and entrees considering they had all sat down at once, and they weren’t staffed appropriately.

Almost everyone was okay with it.

Except a group of four—three men and one woman—who looked at Stiles as though he had insulted their dead mother. “You can’t expect us to just accept poor service because your hotel didn’t decide to accurately staff your restaurant, do you?” the woman asked.

Stiles swallowed thickly, and pasted on a smile. “Ma’am, I can assure you that this is accurate staffing for the night. As your group was unexpected…”

“And we’re to blame?” she demanded.

Stiles shook his head. “Of course not.”

“Incompetent bullshit,” she spat. “And you’ve been standing here wasting our time now for what? Five minutes? And you haven’t even taken a drink order? Is this the service we’ll be expecting all night?”

Stiles took out his order pad. “As I told the other tables…”

“I am not some random asshole who decided to just sit here,” she said. She ordered a martini, and the other three men ordered beer. Holding his breath, and his rage, Stiles moved to the POS and input everything. He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see Liam there.

“I’ve got everything but the alcohol, okay?”

Stiles softened toward the kid. “Look man, you’re amazing, and you know I love you, but you gotta help Matt. That dude is…” Stiles didn’t need to finish his sentence when Matt took the lead and dropped a tray of water on the ground. “Yeah. So…”

Liam sighed. “Got it.”

Stiles did his best, ignoring the furious look on the Trouble Table’s faces, and got everyone their drinks, and orders put in as quick as he could. He hadn’t been into the kitchen yet, but he could hear Boyd’s sharp barking orders, and Isaac’s quieter voice calling out when Matt’s food was coming up. Liam was busting his ass to do his best, and Stiles wanted to help, but the Trouble Table was snapping their fingers at him for attention.

“Uh, we’re ready,” the woman said. “I want fajitas, but I want extra chicken, no red peppers, light on the mushrooms, and I want it extra hot. You got that?”

Stiles repeated the order back to her, and wanted to cry with relief when the other men asked for burgers and fries. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Waters,” the woman said. “Ice, extra lemon, no complaints.” She gave him a sweet smile, batting her lashes, and Stiles has never wanted to dump a drink on anyone more than he did right then.

He turned instead, putting the order in, then going to check on his first tables. Pushing through the doors, he came to a skidding stop when he found Derek standing at the cold line, whipping up industrial size bowls of salad. Stiles’ heart raced when Derek looked up, his determined frown twitching into a half smile. He managed to gather himself, and ignore the pointed look he got from Isaac, and walked up to where Erica was starting to expo the tables’ orders.

“You good?” she asked.

Stiles nodded. “I think so. How’s Matt?”

“We’re not even going to talk about that right now, okay? We’re going to get through this shit show, and then we’re going to close up and do like six shift-shots, and no side-work.” She shoved a tray at him. “This is for nine.”

It wasn’t his table, but he didn’t care. Food was flying out faster than it ever had, and as much as Stiles wanted to linger and watch Derek actually work, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

Almost everyone was decent.

Then the fajitas, which had taken longer than usual thanks to the modifications were done, and Stiles brought them out. The cast-iron was sizzling, and Stiles carefully put the hot pad on the handle before setting it in front of the woman. “The entire wood base gets hot,” he warned her, “so please use the hot pad if you need to move it.” He put her sides down, and the tortillas, then dished out the burgers to the rest of the table. “Is there anything else…”

“You know what,” she said, her voice rising enough that the dining room went oddly quiet. She stood half way out of her seat, and Stiles knew the look. He knew the verbal lashing he was about to take. “We got here, it took you ten full minutes to get in a drink order, another twenty before we had anything on this table. Then you show up with our food half an hour after we order when we watched tables get theirs in less than ten and you have the nerve to ask me if I want anything else?”

“Ma’am,” Stiles began, going hot around the collar. He wanted to jump across the table and take her by the front of her shirt and tell her none of this was supposed to have happened. Her hotel wasn’t supposed to have flooded, they weren’t supposed to get thirteen tables all at once with a newbie who couldn’t keep his shit together. His dad wasn’t supposed to have gotten shot. He wasn’t supposed to lose the potential love of his life, and his job, and his schooling for years. He wasn’t supposed to be a nearly thirty-year-old server at a hotel where all of his friends had high-level management positions, and spouses, and had fucking _babies on the way_. But he said nothing as she pointed a finger in his face.

“No. Do not ma’am me. Don’t try to talk your way out of this sort of treatment!” Her voice rose to a shout, and apart from, her, the entire restaurant was dead silent. “This is a five star resort and I’m being treated like I’m at the all-you-can-eat Super 8 motel buffet! You bring me mediocre food half an hour after we order it, and you expect me to just sit down and eat it without complaint!” Her hand dropped to the table, and before Stiles could warn her, it landed on the edge of the skillet. Her eyes went wide, and she gripped the pan by the handle, and flung it.

It took a moment for Stiles to register the pain, the searing heat along his exposed forearm. His eyes went wide, and he stared in disbelief as sizzling meat and peppers dropped from his front. Suddenly he was being bustled away, the shock making everything seem a bit surreal and distant. In the back of his head, he could hear Erica’s voice, and he felt a large, warm hand at the back of his neck.

He barely registered what was happening, the swoosh of an open door, the cool air of a chef’s office. He was pushed into a chair, and he stared down at his hands. “My fingers are shaking,” he heard himself say.

Fingers touched his chin, drawing his gaze up, and he found himself staring into Derek’s face. “I need to treat that, okay?”

Stiles blinked, then glanced at his arm, at the raised welt. “She hit me with the fajita pan,” he said dumbly.

Derek swallowed so heavily, his throat clicked. “I saw.” His voice was flat, emotionless, all signs Stiles had come to recognize in him as anger.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted as Derek turned for the first aid kit. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to piss her off.”

“Stiles!” Derek barked, making him jump. He took a breath, then knelt down and gently took Stiles’ hand in his. “For fuck’s sake, do not apologize for that…that…” He seemed at a loss for expletives, and just shook his head. “Do not apologize. Please.” He took an antibacterial wipe to the skin, blowing gently when Stiles hissed at the pain.

Watching mutely as Derek put on a pair of blue gloves, Stiles let the chef crack open a packet of burn cream, and gently rub it into his skin. The effect was almost instantaneous, the cooling working right away to take the ache out.

“You need to go to the ER, okay?” Derek said quietly.

Stiles nodded. The shock was wearing off, and his entire body was trembling gently, like a cold shiver, in spite of the kitchen heat leaking through the crack in the door. “I, uh…”

“I’m going to text Scott, and he can pick you up and take you. This is on the hotel, alright? We will take care of this.” Derek’s thumb traced a line around the injured skin, and his gaze stayed firmly anywhere but on Stiles’ face. “We’ll handle this.”

“I remembered what Jackson said, about not admitting fault. I didn’t,” Stiles said, for lack of anything else. “She kept yelling and I just let her, and I didn’t…I never said it was our fault.”

“I know,” Derek replied. “But also I don’t give a fuck what you said to her. No one…” His jaw clenched, and he carefully drew his hand away. He didn’t move back though, but he finally looked at Stiles properly. “Your job isn’t to take abuse like that, okay? That isn’t…that’s not what we’re here for. No one is paid enough for that kind of treatment. I don’t care who she is.” He pulled his phone out and opened a text to Scott.

Stiles drew his bottom lip between his teeth and nodded. “I wasn’t supposed to be here,” he confessed. He thought maybe it was the shock, or maybe the injury, or maybe he was just feeling brave. “Like existentially. Things were on the right track. I…met someone. He was…” Stiles trailed off, not brave enough yet, though he felt like he could climb Everest with the way all of Derek’s attention was on him. “My dad got hurt, and everything went to shit, and I thought it was getting better.”

“Don’t let that bitch ruin anything,” Derek said firmly. He pressed his hand over Stiles’ shaking ones. “It was one bad night, and it doesn’t mean anything.”

Stiles nodded, and he sat there, just feeling Derek’s hand on his. It was either hours, or seconds—he couldn’t tell—but the door to the office opened and Scott was there. His gaze flickered between Derek’s hand on his, and Stiles’ face, then he stepped in and Derek let go.

“Come on, I’ve got my car out front.” Scott offered a hand toward Stiles who took it. “She’s being dealt with, right? This isn’t…”

“She’s being dealt with. Laura will be down in a minute,” Derek said, and the weight to his voice said that Derek wouldn’t rest until this was solved.

Scott nodded, then hustled Stiles out the back door, and to the car. Neither of them said much on the drive, but five minutes before they reached Beacon General, Scott glanced at him. “He likes you.”

Stiles blinked at the sudden sound of his friend’s voice. “What?”

“Derek. I mean, I don’t think he’d tolerate that shit happening to anyone, but…he likes you.”

Stiles scoffed, glancing back out the window. “I really cannot even begin to deal with that right now, Scotty.”

Scott’s face was immediately apologetic. “I’m sorry. God, I’m…I don’t even know what to say.”

“I just…” Stiles swallowed, and scrubbed a hand down his face. “I kept thinking, she’s screaming at me, and berating me for doing nothing, and she’s going to end up getting a free room and a bottle of champagne as a reward for verbally abusing employees. I…Scott, how can they…”

“That’s not going to happen,” Scott said firmly. He turned into the parking lot and pulled up to the drop-off zone. “Laura is not going to reward that bitch for giving you a third degree burn, Stiles. She’s going to press charges.”

Stiles blinked at him. “She said…”

“She’s going to give a bottle of Cristal to the woman who found a gnat in her omelet, and she’s going to give a free room to the person who found lipstick stains on the cups in their rooms. She’ll give a spa voucher when Derek fucks up cakes, or when Liam drops a tray of lemonade on a person by the pool. She’s not going to reward a woman for committing assault against a server.” Scott reached over and gripped the back of his neck. “It’s a shit job, I get that. I know exactly how much service sucks. But she’s in your corner.”

Stiles nodded, then blew out a puff of air and looked at the entryway. Part of him wanted to just go home and sleep it off, but the burn cream was wearing off, and the subtle ache, he knew, was going to turn into vicious pain soon. “Meet me in there?”

Scott laughed. “Like I’m going _anywhere_. At least not until they give you the good shit.”

Stiles nodded, then headed inside, trying not to think about the amount of time he spent there for his mother, and then for his father. Instead he focused on the echo of Derek’s hand on his, and the memory of his voice, and the gentle way he treated Stiles. He wasn’t sure Scott was right—wasn’t really in a place he wanted to hope. But Scott had been right—after they treated the burn, he did get the good stuff, and he was allowed to go home.

_ _ _ 

Stiles’ first shift back was a week later. He had to talk to a detective about the incident—which luckily had been picked up on the hotel security cams. The hotel’s representation was handling Stiles’ case for him, picking up the retainer, and he’d been tersely informed by Jackson that the woman was probably going to settle, so it’s not like he’d even need to show up for anything.

“Though if you do, try and look like a put together adult instead of someone we found in a dumpster behind Aeropostale.”

Stiles would have flipped him off it hadn’t been a phone call.

His burn was healing, and the pain had pretty much stopped—dealt with now with topical cream instead of pills. His first shift back was banquet set-up, where he’d be rolling silverware and polishing glasses—mind numbing bullshit, but it kept him from dealing with guests which frankly was the last thing he wanted at the moment.

“We need the baking trays for the cakes,” Danny told him. “You want me to run and get it?”

Stiles shook his head and tried not to sound too eager, but he hadn’t seen Derek since he’d been back. “Uh, I can. I need a break from this.”

Danny waved him off, pulling out his phone rather than getting back to work, so Stiles grabbed the cart and headed into the hallway. He felt a wash of courage as he walked the twists and turns of the service corridors, and he thought back to Derek’s expression, to Stiles’ almost confession in that room.

Maybe it was time. Maybe Scott was right, and it was time to just tell Derek who he was, and what had happened, and see if there was literally anything there. He wasn’t sure he’d have the nerve again, and he figured if Derek rejected him and it got awkward, he could just quit. At this point, the job felt like it mattered a lot less than letting himself wallow and pine any longer.

Stiles paused outside the pastry kitchen, but when he poked his head in, it was empty. He could hear faint voices coming from Derek’s office, however, so Stiles left the cart in the corridor, and made his way in.

 _You can do this_ , he told himself. _Just tell him the truth. That look on his face wasn’t meaningless, and Scott has never lied to you before. Not about something like this._

Stiles licked his lips, pausing at the door which was cracked. Closing his eyes once for a long breath, he reached out and knocked, then pushed the door open. “Hey, Derek I…”

The words died on his lips as a woman—gorgeous, full-figured, smiling softly—pulled away from Derek, her hand lingering on his cheek.

Derek startled, and then his mouth turned into a deep frown. “What do you want?” he barked.

Stiles’ entire face flushed hot and red. “I…uh. Baking. Baking trays,” he stammered. “Danny sent me for…”

Derek nodded, carefully moving past the woman who gave Stiles a slow up-and-down look. He nearly froze under her scrutiny, then he snapped back to himself and turned on his heel, following Derek into the kitchen. The confession died in his chest as Derek ripped baking sheets from the tall cart, slamming them on the prep table.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Stiles said quietly.

Derek turned and gave him a hard look. “You barged in.”

“I know. I uh…” His gaze flickered back toward Derek’s office, then he shrugged. “I wanted to um…”

“To what?” Derek demanded.

Stiles shrugged. “Say thanks. For helping me out the other night. I…it helped. So thanks.”

Derek softened, just a little, and there was a pink tinge to the tips of his ears as he shrugged. “It was my job.”

“Right,” Stiles said, and he gathered the trays into his arms. “Right. Your job. I…well. Have a nice shift, Chef.” The word in place of Derek’s name felt so wrong, and yet, what else was he supposed to do.

He was foolish enough to think his confession would matter, that Derek would have waited the way he had, these five long years for what? A phantom in a mask? For a stolen kiss and a quick hand-job with a guy whose name he didn’t know. He’d called Stiles beautiful, but that was probably the champagne and the moment talking. And yeah. He didn’t even remember anyway.

Hurrying out, trying not to let himself feel overwhelmed, Stiles threw the trays onto the cart and hurried back to the banquet room. Danny was still there, feet up on a chair, and he gave Stiles a wide, dimpled smile as he burst in.

“Why do you look pissed?”

“Derek being Derek,” Stiles said, letting the pain sound like frustration instead.

Danny snorted. “Yeah, he’s been a real ass the last few days. I think that lady who fucked up your arm really pissed him off.”

Stiles felt a burn in the back of his throat, and he shook it off. “Hey so uh…do you want to do something this weekend? You mentioned the Jungle a while back.”

Danny sat up straight, eyebrows up. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Stiles said, now determined. “I mean like a date.”

A slow smile stretched across Danny’s lips, and he nodded. “Hell yes I do. I’ll pick you up Saturday.”

Stiles grinned back, but it didn’t feel genuine. All the same, he needed this. He needed to get himself over it the way Derek clearly had. “Cool. I…I can’t wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh emotionally constipated Derek. When will you just admit your love? (spoiler alert : soon. He will admit his love soon. Very soon.)
> 
> Fun Fact: This scenario with the woman is based on an incident I had working at the resort. She threw a full glass of water, and the check book at me, and was thrown out of the hotel for it. Be nice to your servers, friends, because it's an exhausting job and customers can be real aholes!
> 
> (The same resort also gave a free weekend stay, a spa voucher, and expensive wine to a woman who found a gnat in the bowl of mixed fruit during our Sunday Brunch and screamed about being traumatized by bug infestations for a full half hour in the lobby.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up finishing this story quicker, so I updated the chapter count. I started to lose inspiration for it, so I wanted to make a quick ending because there's nothing worse than abandoned stories.
> 
> Anyway, there's a short epilogue after this, and that will wrap it up. Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos. Y'all are amazing!

“Scott, get out of the way. I’m late to meet Danny and I…”

Scott stared at him, unimpressed, arms folded as he stood in the doorway. “No.”

Stiles huffed, dragging his hand down his face. “Okay just tell me whatever the hell it is that you want so I can go on this date. I have the chance to actually get laid and I’m not giving it up because you’re having a tantrum about,” he pause, waving his hand around Scott, “whatever it is.”

Scott sighed, leaning against the doorframe, but not budging. “For five years, you’ve pretty much been celibate. The few times you did try, it was a disaster and you ended up drinking on my couch because your mystery Phantom Mask guy was still MIA. Now suddenly you’re over it. No, wait. First you get a crush on Chef Hale—and don’t argue,” Scott said when Stiles’ mouth dropped open to do just that, “I know when you have a crush, Stiles. I’ve known you like all of my life.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’ve had crushes before, Scott. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yeah, except that’s a lie. I mean, you have had crushes, but you got all close to Derek, and I think it’s obvious he liked you too. Now you’re going out with _Danny_? The guy who makes serial hook-ups basically his religion?”

Stiles bit his lip, backing a step away from Scott. Everything he’d been keeping inside was burning, and he knew a few seconds more, and he wasn’t going to be able to keep it all in. “Derek has a girlfriend.”

Scott laughed. “Cute, Stiles.”

“I’m serious.” Stiles rubbed his face again, feeling his resolve cracking, knew he should just let it because he always felt better when he could talk to Scott. “I…I…” He licked his lips. “I have something to tell you.”

Scott’s eyebrows went up. “So tell me.”

Stiles scuffed his foot on the floor, then glanced at his phone which showed he was already five minutes late. He knew he should send a text, but there was a part of him that he knew was trying to sabotage this entire thing. Trying to ensure that Danny wouldn’t give him a second chance so there were no more excuses, no more escape routes. “It was Derek.”

“What was Derek?” Scott asked, his face falling into confusion.

Stiles rubbed at the back of his neck. “The Phantom Guy. That was Derek. I had no idea until I met him in the kitchen,” Stiles said in a rush, when Scott looked suddenly betrayed. “And he didn’t remember me at all.”

Scott stepped through the door and closed it behind him. “Shit, dude.”

Stiles gave a weak shrug. “It sucked, you know? To be hung up on a guy you thought you’d hurt, only to find out he was probably so drunk he didn’t even remember any of it. So I was kind of trying to just get past it, but then Derek started…I don’t know, being friendly? Being nice? And I swore we connected, I swore that he was actually into me. So I decided I was going to tell him the truth, and tell him that I was into him. But I walked into his office and he was making out with some girl.”

Scott blinked. “Seriously? What did she look like?”

Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know man. Gorgeous. Like ridiculously gorgeous. Brown skin, straightened hair, mouth that you could spend days kissing. Oh, and she had a scar here,” he said, touching the side of his throat and feeling a little weird for remembering such a mundane detail.

Scott’s frown deepened. “That sounds like Braeden.”

“You know her?” Stiles asked.

Scott snorted. “Yeah. She’s a detective, and a total bad ass, and definitely not Derek’s girlfriend.”

“How would you know?” Stiles demanded, feeling a little weird about the whole thing.

“Uh, because Braeden is married to Laura, and I’m pretty sure Laura would castrate her brother if he was trying to fuck her wife.”

Stiles choked on air. “Dude.”

“But you’re serious,” Scott pressed. “They were kissing.”

Stiles flushed, shrugging. “Okay maybe I didn’t see them _kissing_ , but it was pretty freaking intimate, Scott. She had her hand all on his face, and they were really, really close.”

Scott shook his head. “Look man, I don’t pretend to know what goes on with the Hales, but if that really was Braeden, then there’s nothing going on. And I’ve also been working there a long damn time, and I know that Derek doesn’t warm up to just anyone, okay?”

Stiles shrugged. “Yeah well, he wasn’t exactly interested in hearing what I had to say that night anyway. He basically kicked me out and told me he didn’t want to see me again. He said taking care of me was his _job_.”

“Have you ever seen him give a shit about anyone that way in the time you’ve worked here?” Scott demanded.

Stiles knew the answer to that, but he didn’t want to give it. “Look man, I have to go. Danny’s waiting and I don’t want to be that dick.”

“Danny’s long gone, Stiles, and you know it.”

Stiles pursed his lips, but lit up his phone screen and saw the message from Danny. **Sorry man, not waiting any longer. Text me later.**

“I am _such_ a dick.”

Scott laughed. “Uh. Yeah.”

Hanging his head, Stiles did his sad-Charlie-Brown walk into Scott’s arms and buried his face against his best friend’s shoulder. “Take me out drinking. I need to get stupid and grind up on some hot person that I’m definitely not taking home.”

Scott snorted and gave Stiles a pat on the shoulder. “Sure thing, buddy. I’ll drive.”

_ _ _ 

The Jungle was a hot mess of sweaty bodies and barely-legal teens all wearing wrist-bands. The All-Ages night wasn’t the best time to go out and get stupid, but the music was good, and Stiles could at least identify the people safe to flirt with.

He ordered a gin and tonic with extra lime, gulped it in one go, then signaled for another in a plastic cup so he could take it out onto the floor with him.

“See anything good?” Scott shouted over the beat.

Stiles shrugged. “I’m sure I can find something.” He sipped his drink, then started to weave his way into the gaggle of bodies. Luckily the teens were all keeping to one side of the floor, so Stiles felt safe in the sea of sweat and too-tight t-shirts with bare arms and alcohol-dazed eyes. He was starting to feel the first drink, and he let that and the rhythm start to take him into a softer, hazy, less-conflicted place.

Scott was still by the bar, and eventually he was pulled into a small group of people who were getting into the groove. He let his hips roll and his eyes close, and it wasn’t until a pair of firm hands grabbed his waist to spin him that he looked up.

It was that woman. The dark eyes and the soft hair, wearing a tight tank top, her skin glistening with sweat under the dim, colorful lights.

“You,” he said.

Her mouth stretched into a grin. “And you. You come here often?”

Stiles flushed a little. “Uh? I guess?”

“You ran out of the office so damn fast the other day, I didn’t get to introduce myself. I’m Braeden.” She offered a hand, and Stiles took it in spite of himself.

“You’re Laura’s wife,” he stated.

She nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“So like, is it a Hale thing that their wives go make out with their brothers or…”

Braeden’s smile turned dangerous. “It’s a Hale thing that they’re emotionally constipated and fucking morons about what they really want. And they’re also so fucking stubborn, they end up touch-starved.” She hesitated, and just when Stiles thought she might punch him for the comment, she laid a hand on his shoulder instead, and leaned in to speak into his ear, “You didn’t see what you thought you did. Derek’s missing his masked man, but he’s being too much of a stubborn dipshit to do anything about it.”

Stiles ripped away from her hand, his eyes wide. “You…he…” He cleared his throat. “He knew that was me?”

“What?” she said, her voice loud and challenging. “He knew the nameless guy he pined over for five fucking years was the new server standing in his kitchen?” She laughed humorlessly. “Yeah, Stiles. He knew it was you. He was pretty pissed about it until he found out why the hell you never came back.”

Stiles’ face was burning. “My dad…”

“He knows,” she said firmly.

He dragged a hand down his face. “What the hell do I do, then?”

“You nut up,” she said, shoving him by the shoulder gently. “You nut up and you tell him you want to suck his face off, and then maybe his dick, and then you want to marry him and have a bunch of babies because I can tell you’re just as much of a dipshit as he is—but you’re probably less stubborn. If it helps, I can tell you he’s in his office right now and he will be for the next two hours doing inventory and ordering.”

Stiles backed up, almost tripping on his shoes. “Uh…”

“Go,” she said firmly. “Tell Scott to give you a ride. And also that he owes me five bucks.”

Stiles frowned, but nodded, nearly braining himself as he tripped near the bar. Scott managed to catch him as he glanced back over at Braeden who was weaving her way back into the crowd. “So, that was Laura’s wife,” he said dumbly.

Scott rolled his eyes. “Yeah dude, thanks. I knew that.”

“She says you owe her five bucks,” Stiles repeated.

Scott sighed. “I hate her.”

“Also you need to drive me to the hotel. I uh…I have something to do.”

This time Scott smiled. “Yeah. I knew that too.”

_ _ _ 

Stiles was nearly trembling with nerves by the time he reached Derek’s office. Luckily the hotel wasn’t busy, so the night staff was at a minimum, and he ran into less than a handful of people—mostly housekeeping—as he rushed toward the pastry kitchen.

He could hear soft music, but when he poked his head through the door, no one was in the main kitchen. He could see a faint light from the direction of Derek’s office, and he forced himself to walk in. It was now or never, at this point. He’d tell Derek who he was—or tell Derek he knew Derek knew who he was. And then he’d tell him that for five years, their short moment on the balcony meant everything and if Derek was willing to try, then he was ready. 

He paused at the door, which was open a crack, and then he knocked. Instead of barging in like the other night, he waited anxiously, his hands clenched behind his back. It took a moment, but the door flung open, and Derek’s scowl immediately melted into confusion and surprise.

“Stiles?”

Stiles cleared his throat. “Uh. Hey?”

“What…you’re not working tonight,” he said a little dumbly. “Isaac said you…you had a date.”

“I did,” Stiles said, and when Derek’s ears pinked, Stiles shook his head. “I never showed up for it. Danny’s probably going to hate me forever, but I don’t care.” He took a breath, then forged on. “I ran into Braeden at the Jungle. She told me that you know.”

Derek blinked at him.

“You know that I’m the one. From the party.”

At that, Derek’s blush spread from his ears to his cheeks, and he stepped back. “We probably shouldn’t do this here.”

Stiles felt a rush as he stepped past Derek and heard the door click shut. He wanted to reach out and touch, to feel Derek’s mouth on his again, but he didn’t dare cross any lines. Not just yet. Instead he sat and tried not to stare as Derek hovered, then took the guest chair instead of his own.

They were close enough their knees would touch, if Stiles turned even slightly to the side.

“So. You remember,” Derek said.

Stiles’ eyes went wide. “Uh. Yes? Of course I remember! Jesus, I spent five years hating myself for not getting at least your first name before you left.”

Derek bowed his head a little, but there was the faintest smile on his lips. “I didn’t know about your dad. I had no idea who you were, just that I…I had the best moment of my life with you out there. I came back and you were gone. I asked a couple of people at the party, and they said you ran out. I thought I’d…I thought maybe you were drunk and I’d taken advantage, or that you realized what a huge disaster I was and…”

“My dad was shot,” Stiles blurted. “He…he’s the only parent I have left. My mom died when I was a kid, and I spent every day terrified that he was going to get hurt. Then he was. I didn’t even think, you know? I just…ran.”

“I understand,” Derek said, and then leaned over and put his hand—hot and impossibly warm—right on Stiles’ thigh. “When you first started here, I thought maybe you didn’t remember. Maybe it was insignificant, and I mean…it was one moment, you know? Then I felt like a jackass for holding on to this fantasy for five years. Five years for five minutes with you.”

“I thought about you every night,” Stiles confessed. “Scott thinks I’m nuts. I could never make anything work with anyone. When I saw you, you just looked right through me. You talked to me like I was some loser kid who failed at life and…” He trailed off, shrugging.

After a moment, Derek shifted closer, and huffed out a laugh. “We both fucked this up.”

“I thought you were kissing Braeden,” Stiles blurted, his second confession of the night. “I came here to tell you who I was, that I…that I liked you and that I was sorry, and I was ready to beg for a second chance. Then I saw you and her…”

“She’s handsy, but she’s Laura’s wife,” Derek said, looking mortified. “I would never…”

“Yeah, I got that now,” Stiles interrupted, grinning. “So about that second chance…”

He didn’t get to finish his thought. Not when Derek stood up, not when he grabbed Stiles by the front of his shirt and crowded him back against the door. His mouth was just as hot and just as perfect as Stiles remembered. A thigh wedged between his legs, and Stiles ground down against it, his mouth opening in a moan, and Derek took advantage by sliding his tongue, hot and slick against Stiles’.

His head fell back, cracking against the wood for a second, but then Derek’s hand was there, cushioning the blow. His other hand moved to Stiles’ hip, helping edge his body closer, helping bring Stiles onto his toes as they pressed together in one, firm line, body against body.

“I want you,” Derek murmured.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, both hands buried in Derek’s hair. He tipped his head back and kissed him, wet and sloppy for a long moment before he could answer. “I’ve already fucked you here. Tell me you have a place somewhere close. Because I want to take my time.”

Derek nipped at his bottom lip before pulling away in a series of soft pecks, like it was causing physical discomfort to stop kissing him. “I live five minutes away. On the property.”

“God. Okay. I can make it that long. I’m a grown-ass man and I can wait five minutes to come.”

Derek decided to try and prove him wrong by pushing a hand against Stiles’ achingly hard dick, but before Stiles could tip over the edge, he pulled away completely. It took Stiles several moments to compose himself, and he was sure the tent in his pants was obvious. But Derek made no mention of it as he dragged Stiles into the hall, locked up his office, then dragged him by the hand to the parking lot.

Derek drove a camaro, pristine and gorgeous, and he took it at almost too-fast a speed for the winding roads. But he wasn’t lying. His little cottage was on the property, less than five minutes away from the main resort. It had a long driveway, and dimly lit windows, and Stiles barely took any of it in as he and Derek stumbled into each other the second they were through the door.

They barely parted, making it difficult to strip and get through the bedroom door, but they eventually managed it. Stiles was pretty sure he lost time at some point, because when he came to, he was flat on his back, and Derek was using his damn _mouth_ to roll a condom on. He took Stiles all the way in, his cock nudging at the back of Derek’s throat. Derek gagged a little and pulled back, giving Stiles a good hard suck as he made his way to the tip.

“I want you to fuck me. I don’t want you to come until you’re inside of me,” Derek murmured, his voice already hoarse.

Stiles had to use every ounce of control not to lose it right then. It was a reprieve when Derek got up to wash up and find the lube, and though Stiles didn’t lose his erection much at all, he was able to regain some of his control before Derek got back.

He watched with hazy, hooded eyes as Derek knelt on the edge of the bed. He had a condom on two of his fingers, and lube was dripping down his wrist, and he was fucking himself with a loud, squelching noise. Stiles’ eyes all-but rolled back, and he mentally slapped himself before he sat up and ordered Derek to turn.

“God, I need to see you. I need to see you fuck yourself for me.”

Derek groaned, head falling forward as he shifted his body, and Stiles nearly ascended at the view of Derek’s two fingers pumping in and out of his ass.

“I don’t need much more,” Derek grunted, and pulled his hand away. He discarded the condom, then slathered lube on Stiles before turning, letting his head hang below his shoulders.

Stiles moved carefully, a little uneasy as it had been so, so long, and he hadn’t expected this at all. Derek’s hole was puckered, wet from the lube, and god, he wanted inside. He grabbed him by the hips, then gently nudged him with the tip of his cock.

“I don’t care how far we’re into this, you need me to stop, we stop. Okay?” Stiles pressed.

Derek grunted, then nodded. “Okay.”

Stiles bit his lip, then carefully pushed inside. It was a slow fuck, inch by inch, taking an eternity and it was so hot and so wet that he had to still himself more than once to keep himself under control. His hands on Derek’s hips were trembling, but eventually he was fully inside.

“Sit up,” Stiles said. “Sit up, fuck yourself on me.”

Derek moaned, but did so, pressing his back to Stiles’ chest, his hips grinding down as Stiles thrust up. It was messy, and their rhythm was out of sync, but it was also everything Stiles had dreamed of. Not just this, not just being inside of Derek, but having him. Having found him again, being allowed to have this, to see a future where maybe he could keep it.

“I…” he said, but his words fell flat as he felt his orgasm cresting. “Shit. I’m going to…”

He clutched Derek around his chest, and felt the movement of Derek’s arm as he stroked himself, and within a few thrusts, Stiles was coming. Derek groaned, his head tipping back against Stiles’ shoulder, and only a few moments later, he was spilling all over his curled fist.

Stiles collapsed onto his side, breathing heavy, and he allowed Derek to push him onto his back, to carefully remove the condom, and clean him up with a wet rag Stiles hadn’t even noticed him getting up for. Soon enough, he was being tucked under the sheets, and Derek was curling up around his back, arm tight against his waist.

“Is this okay?” Derek asked after a long moment. “When I thought about telling you, it wasn’t just to get you into bed.”

Stiles huffed a laugh and nestled back further into Derek’s arms. “I didn’t mean for this either, but I don’t regret it. I thought about you for five years, and you know how sometimes when you think you miss something and then you have it again and it’s not nearly as good as you remember?”

Derek hummed, sounding unsure. “Mmhm.”

“Well this was nothing like that. This was better. This was more than I could have hoped for. I spent the last two months learning you—the terrible sides of you, and the best sides of you. And I like it all. When I didn’t know you five years ago, my instinct told me you were something special. These two months, and this moment right here just proved it right.” Stiles turned and reached up, cupping Derek’s face. “If it’s too much…”

“It isn’t,” Derek said in a rush, and curled his hand over the back of Stiles’. “It’s not too much. It’s exactly right.”

Stiles let his eyes slip closed, and his hand fall back to Derek’s waist. He pushed his head against Derek’s neck and could feel the way his hammering heart started to slow down. “Can I stay?”

Derek huffed, and nosed into Stiles’ hair. “I wouldn’t want you to be anywhere else.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Looking to add a little sparkle to your morning shit?” came a voice right at Stiles’ ear.

Stiles, to his credit, only startled a little, and reached up to scratch under the edge of the mask which was starting to feel kind of heavy and sweaty under all the lights. He leaned back into the looming presence behind him and shrugged. “Was thinking about it. Tired of the plain, boring old brown.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Stiles laughed, shrugging as an arm came around his waist and hitched him up close. “You like it. And anyway, I have a little sweet tooth tonight. Just not sure I want to eat all this pretentious crap. I mean, chocolate’s chocolate, man. It doesn’t need gold.”

“Hmm. I don’t know. I kind of like it with a little sparkle.”

Stiles turned to glance up at the half-covered face, the Phantom mask glinting in the overhead lights. “You’re a nerd.”

Derek tipped his head in close to Stiles’ ear. “You love it.”

Stiles couldn’t help the way his breath hitched, the way he pushed into Derek’s space. “I guess I do.”

Derek gathered Stiles close with one arm, the other reaching for a little cake on the table. He pulled back with the little petit four nestled in the center of a small plate, and he dipped low to kiss Stiles sweetly. “It’s kind of hot in here. You wanna get out of here and grab some air? I know a secret place that no one else knows about.”

Stiles’ grin threatened to split his face in half as he let his hand fall into Derek’s. “Mm. Sounds promising. Lead the way, Chef.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but tugged Stiles over to the wall, pulling back the edge of tapestry to reveal a door. Stiles felt a rush of affection, of want, of happiness which hadn’t diminished, even in the year they’d been together.

The night air was cool against his skin as they stepped out onto the private balcony, the area lit by the full moon, and the soft glow of the ballroom lights through the fogged windows. Stiles let Derek go to lean up against the railing, and he turned to look at his boyfriend who was watching him curiously.

“Shall we demask?” Stiles asked.

Derek’s mouth twitched up into a smirk. “Isn’t that part of the fun? Being anonymous?”

Stiles pushed away from the railing, stalking forward, reaching behind Derek’s head to loosen the ties. He let the mask fall to the floor, then pulled off his own just as Derek claimed him in a bruising kiss. He backed Stiles up against the railing, one knee thrust between his thighs, and just when it was starting to get really good, Derek broke away, his breathing a little heavy and stuttered.

“Hey, no, I was enjoying that,” Stiles said with a pout.

Derek huffed a quiet laugh and held the plate of chocolate cake between them. “I thought you said you had a sweet tooth.”

Stiles shrugged. “I’d make some gross, cheesy joke about you being sweet enough, but I actually _want_ you to keep kissing me so…”

Derek snorted. “Why don’t we share it. I’ll split it with you.” He waggled the plate, and Stiles rolled his eyes grabbing for it.

“Fine. But then you get to suck my face more because I…” He trailed off as his fingers broke the little cake in half, and the bright full moon’s light glinted off something far shinier than the edible gold leaves decorating the top. Buried in the soft cake was a gold band, thick, with ornate carvings so delicate, he couldn’t make them all out. His voice was dead in his throat, and all he could manage was a quiet, “ _meep_ ” as his eyes looked up to search for Derek’s.

Only they weren’t there. Derek was now down on one knee, the plate aside, the cake abandoned, his hand reaching for Stiles’. “So call me cheesy,” he began quietly, “but I’ve been planning this for…a while. Since that night, I think. Even when you didn’t come back, I could never let go of the idea that I wanted to make you mine out here, right where it all started. So…” He shrugged, and tugged Stiles’ hand to his lips, pressing a fierce kiss to his knuckles. “Marry me?”

“You are…I don’t,” Stiles spluttered. He dragged Derek to his feet, crushing him to his chest, his mouth seeking in a messy, filthy, desperate kiss. Derek’s hands went to Stiles’ hair, gripping him tight as Stiles tried to pour every ounce of love he held for this man into that kiss.

“Is that a yes?” Derek muttered against Stiles’ lips.

Stiles couldn’t help his laugh. “Yes. Fuck yeah it’s a yes! Oh my god.” He had the ring clutched in his fist, and he tried to thrust it at Derek as Derek tried to take it from him, and the fumbling sent it falling to the balcony floor.

Stiles watched in horror as it rolled toward the edge, and before he almost had a stroke, Derek managed to catch it in the nick of time.

“Fuck,” Derek muttered as he climbed to his feet.

Stiles grasped his chest. “Okay yeah, that almost killed me. Put it on before disaster strikes.”

Derek grabbed Stiles by the hand, yanking him close. He shoved the ring into his mouth and sucked off the chocolate, ignoring Stiles’ outraged, disgusted cry of protest, then shoved it on his hand. “There,” Derek said, then kissed him long, and slow, and tasted of chocolate and forever. “Now, I saw your dad out there dancing with my aunt, so let’s go tell them we’re getting married first so if they start anything, _they’re_ going to be the weird ones.”

Stiles laughed, and as Derek tried to walk away, he pulled him close, into a kiss which was softer, slower, a promise of much more later. “I love you. You know that right?”

Derek cupped his cheek. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Their hands linked together, and after a moment of peace out on their balcony, they both walked inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished! Thank you so much for all your comments and kudos! I'm going on a short trip for about a week, so my other fic which I just started will pick up as soon as I get back. I appreciate every second of your support, and I'm glad the Sterek fandom is still going strong in spite of the shit-show that TW became lol. <3


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